


When Rainclouds Pass

by Certh



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Could Be Canon, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, Eventual Romance, Expansion of Canonical Material, F/M, Family, Field of Cormallen, Friendship, Gen, Healers, Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith, Personal Growth, Post-War of the Ring, Shift Arc, War of the Ring, bookverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Certh/pseuds/Certh
Summary: *canon compliant* When Minas Tirith is evacuated during the War of the Ring, Idrin, sister-daughter of the Steward Denethor, remains in the city to continue serving at the Houses of Healing. With her work as a healer and her duties in the Citadel left nearly unaltered, things feel as familiarly quiet as ever. Yet, oftentimes the occurrences that touch one’s life are rather unassuming and not always noticed when they take place.





	1. Prologue

**WHEN RAINCLOUDS PASS**  
—

_When Minas Tirith is evacuated during the War of the Ring, Idrin, sister-daughter of the Steward Denethor, remains in the city to continue serving at the Houses of Healing. With her work as a healer and her duties in the Citadel left nearly unaltered, things feel as familiarly quiet as ever. Yet, oftentimes the occurrences that touch one’s life are rather unassuming and not always noticed when they take place._

—

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than a store of ideas and those characters you don't recognise. The rest is the product of Professor Tolkien's most wonderful imagination.

Author's Note: This story officially began in August 2011, as an attempt at writing a believable tale featuring three-dimensional characters, set in book-verse Middle-earth without disrupting canon. Over the years it has undergone revisions, a substantial overhaul, and now, after some last edits and additions to the previously posted narrative and a change in structure, has reached its final form.  
I have created a Pinterest board to flesh out my visual interpretation of the written word, with illustrations done by me and others, as well as various titbits that relate to my view of Tolkien's universe. Updated periodically, the board can be found [here](http://www.pinterest.com/inktraces/when-rainclouds-pass).

  
I hope you enjoy what follows. The sharing of thoughts – your likes or dislikes, praise or constructive criticism – is very much appreciated.

* * *

 

_**Prologue** _

Daylight touched the snow-clad peak of Mount Mindolluin, painting its white helm with glinting gold. The clear hue shone down on the mountain side, bathing the great city at its foot in pale luminescence. An east breeze hummed through the busy lower levels of Minas Tirith, but it was cool and nipping, chasing away the sun's warmth. The early spring that had come wasn't yet felt in the stone fortress, save perhaps in the Houses of Healing up in the sixth circle. There the tall trees and fragrant bushes and beds of flowers were already awakening from their winter sleep, bursting into new leaf and blossom. A most delicate, soft scent hung about them, heralding the change of season and bringing comfort amidst the breaths of persisting chill.

In one sunlit corner of the herb garden that fronted the Healers' wing, set a little apart from the elegant buildings accommodating those grievously ill, a little girl watched a lone pale-yellow butterfly hover above an early bloom. The fluttering wings brushed against her tentatively outstretched hand, and she let out a small giggle at the touch.

The older woman standing beside her looked upon the child fondly, good humour tracing her features. She glanced past the girl as movement in the distance caught her eye, spying a cat darting into the thick hedge of shrubbery that went about the buildings and cobbled paths and flowering lawns. As the girl straightened, her guardian shifted her gaze and picked up a book bound in dyed leather that lay on the bench by them. She looked at it for a moment before turning her attention to her charge.

"This is yours, Idrin. Keep it well." She presented the child with it, her lips curving upwards at the delight in the young girl's face.

"Thank you, Mistress Inneth!" The child looked up at her with bright eyes, clutching the gift tightly to her chest.

The woman dipped her head, a dark lock escaping the veil that covered her hair. "Now, go to your mother."

With a beaming smile, the girl turned on her heel and set off. The hurried patter of small feet punctured the calmness as she weaved her way through the garden, making for the building nearest to her. Her footsteps slowed when she reached the open corridor along the wall facing a blooming patch of greensward. In the silence, sounds seemed to bounce off the stone, reaching upward towards the lofty arches that supported the gently sloping roof on the outer side of the gallery. Within, the rooms and hallways were beginning to hum with the quiet voices of healers and patients. Once she had gained the entrance to the house, the girl began walking faster, her eyes glinting when she saw the chamber that was her destination.

The high-ceilinged room was decorated in simple fashion, holding a comfortable bed, a couple of cushioned chairs, a low desk and a sizeable chest of drawers. All was made from tan wood, and the ornate carvings it was sculpted into lent a pleasingly lavish feel. A thick, many-paged book bound in dark red leather sat atop the desk, along with a finely shaped three-branched candlestick wrought of polished brass and a small assortment of aged scrolls. On the chest of drawers was an adorned ivory comb and a hand-held mirror.

Overlooking the garden was a tall, arched window, nearly three feet wide and glazed in order to keep out the cold and rain. A woman sat there, clothed in a gown of embroidered midnight-blue, gazing outside at the flourishing display of spring as sunlight flooded in to lessen the coldness of stone. She relished the cool draft coming in through an open pane, but the intake of a deep breath constricted her chest, bringing about a violent cough. The fit was brief: it wore out quickly, and the stinging ache that came with it soon subsided. Regaining her ease, the woman pressed a linen handkerchief to her lips and set it on her lap once more just as the child rushed into the chamber in a blur of colour.

With a swish of yellow-brown and white fabric, the young girl settled herself on the floor at her feet. Arranging the skirts of her dress about her folded legs, she looked up at the adult.

"Mistress Inneth taught me about the plants in the garden. She said she would teach me how to make infusions from them." The high voice was overflowing with unconcealed excitement, the child's face bright and lit up as if by an ardent flame.

A few lines around the eyes and mouth creased the woman's skin as she beamed affectionately down at her daughter. Sea-grey eyes accentuated her pallid complexion and lean cheeks all the more, but the sickness that wracked her body was hidden behind the smile that touched her colourless lips.

"That is wonderful, my darling," she replied to the girl's almost palpable enthusiasm in a smooth, melodious voice, her gaze warm. Her youngest child was only eight summers of age, and yet she displayed such fondness for all green things that grew as was seldom found in children of her years. Verily, it was that same liking which had drawn her to the healers and their work, for there were some among those skilled people in the Houses of Healing who were wise in the herb-lore of old, and her young daughter had grown fascinated by their art.

Idrin was very often in their company, preferring those quiet moments with them to the time she spent learning subjects and skills required for girls of her class and upbringing. Her interest was genuine and she took much delight in watching the healers and helping with whatever small tasks she could. The women were entertained by her eagerness and indulged in answering her questions, teaching her simple things when she requested it.

It brought joy to the mother to see her daughter so full of cheer and laughter then, banishing from mind her own solemn condition which had brought her to these fair houses.

The Lady Elthian had been in the care of the healers for a little over a year, suffering from a disease of the lungs that robbed her of physical strength and endurance. Her laugh was heard seldom, and the illness had taken its toll so that sometimes even breathing brought a strain upon her. But the smile she now held for her daughter was true, reminiscent of her old self.

"And she gave me this," still aflutter and with unabated fervour the little girl went on, suddenly turning her attention to where her hands lay clasped in her lap. Little fingers tightened around the healer's gift and she drew out the book which had to that moment lain hidden in the folds of her dress. She presented it to her mother. "It has drawings and descriptions of all the healing plants in Gondor, and even some that are found in Rohan and beyond the Misty Mountains." Grey as calm waters at twilight, her eyes shone with the vividness of her delight.

Elthian raised a slender hand to brush a wavy lock of dark hair from her daughter's forehead, and the corners of her mouth were drawn upwards into the wisp of a flitting grin.

"That was very kind of Inneth," she said softly, turning her gaze to regard the book properly. Unmarred by use or wear, the cover was fallow-green in colour, embossed at the front with the flowering sprig of a slender plant, and from between the pages peeked the thin ribbon of a bound bookmark. Elthian took the volume carefully from her daughter's hands as she offered it to her and began turning the parchment leaves with gentle fingers. Lore of years uncounted was hoarded in each page, and the woman recognised that those writings as were within were precious indeed, for such wisdom of times long past was greatly diminished in their days. Without doubt it was a book to be treasured, holding valuable knowledge accumulated by healers and herbalists over many centuries.

Elthian's gaze lingered on the page before her and her fingertips hovered above the fine parchment leaf as she began reading silently to herself. Stillness fell, and her daughter, nearly lulled by the muted shuffling sound, drew herself up and sought to find what had kindled her mother's interest. That page from the book was one Idrin had seen before, and the image of the long-leaved plant that the scribe had so artfully sketched there was familiar to her: kingsfoil it was commonly named, yet it had no virtue the healers knew of, except its invigorating scent. The letters on the page faced away from her, but her eyes found the verses near the bottom without difficulty:

 _When the black breath blows_  
_and death's shadow grows_  
_and all lights pass,_  
_come athelas! come athelas!_  
_Life to the dying_  
_In the king's hand lying!*_

Not for the first time trying to work out the meaning of the old rhyme, the little girl turned to her mother. "Mama, will a king ever return to Gondor?"

Elthian looked up, startled by the sudden question, and rested the book beside her on the stone window-sill. She met her daughter's gaze, filled with innocent curiosity, but did not have an answer to give. A King there had been once, verily, but he had entered the gates of Minas Morgul and was lost, leaving no heir, and for many generations since then did the Stewards govern from the High City in his name. Her brother Denethor was presently the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward,¹ and the return of Elendil's rightful heir to reclaim the throne had long before him passed into legend.

"I do not know, my love," she replied at last, "but he might return still, one day."

* * *

 

* From _The Lord of the Rings_ , Book 5, Chapter VIII.

—

¹ '[Denethor II] was first son and third child of Ecthelion . . .' ( _The History of Middle-earth: The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , Chapter VII, The Ruling Stewards of Gondor)


	2. Chapter 1

**PART I:**  
**BEFORE THE LAST BATTLE**  
—

**Chapter 1**

It was sometime past the sunset-hour when she first heard it: a shrill cry coming from above the fields of the Pelennor, an unearthly screech that turned her blood to ice. She froze mid-step, a shuddering chill spreading through her limbs and awakening some nameless terror within her. Her breast heaved with each laboured breath, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. For many endless seconds she stood still as a statue, wide sea-grey eyes staring unseeingly. Then, as the echo of the piercing shriek died away, she brought a hand to her breast to still herself and breathed deeply. Gathering her skirts, she strode forward to cross the darkening lawn, curiosity getting the better of her. She climbed the short flight of steps hewn into the stone of the wall and pressed against the parapet that ran the whole length of the paved walk-way, looking down.

Six hundred feet below the plain looked dim and bare, but to the left, near the Gate, dark shapes circled and swooped and rose again. They were winged beasts of great size, wheeling above something on the ground, hovering over tiny black specks that moved erratically. Those spots that tried to evade the flying creatures were horses, she realised. Another sharp wail made her cower and take a quick step back from the parapet, driving the heels of her hands against her ears. A trumpet call cut suddenly through the terrifying screech, its note long and high. The young woman's heart thumped with renewed force against her chest and she choked on a sudden intake of breath, recognising the sound.

She dropped her arms to her sides and forced her rooted limbs to move forward. Hands grasping the parapet tightly, her fingernails almost digging into the stone, she leant over and looked out. Three of the riders were running on foot towards the Gate, thrown from their mounts, but the fourth remained in the saddle and was riding back to them. The flying beasts circled above them still, like terrible birds of prey. The young woman's wide eyes darted from one rider to the other frantically, her pulse racing.

A white light then appeared as if out of nowhere and sped towards the men, growing even more bright and dazzling. One of the fell creatures dived. A flare of blazing radiance shot into the heavens, and the woman thought she saw a figure, clad in brilliant white. The winged beast gave a shriek and veered round; its companions gained height and followed it eastward. She watched their dark bulks disappear into the vast brown cloud that dominated the East and let out a deep breath. Turning her gaze at last to the fields, she saw a dimmed white glimmer pass from sight under the outer walls: the hunted men and their saviour had entered the City.

At that hour the young woman was all at once aware of the darkness that had fallen, much deeper than the pastel shades of twilight. As though jolted awake from a dream, she felt the wrinkled fabric in her hand and opened her palm, smoothing the cloth with gentle fingers. Then she came down from the wall.

She picked her way through the flowering greensward laid out between the buildings that made up the Houses of Healing, the light skirts of her pearl-white chemise and sleeveless steel-blue kirtle swishing against her legs, her brisk footsteps the only sound in the calmness of the early night. It was pleasantly cool, and in the quiet that reigned at that moment the domain of the healers seemed secluded from the rest of the City. It was as though the dread of the fell beasts had been but a fading dream. As she reached her destination, a hum went up from afar, rising steadily to a clamour and cheering. Looking over the shrubbery that was the border to the Houses in the distance, she could discern a press of people, following two horsemen to the Citadel. Her footsteps slowed to a halt, and her heart fluttered once more. For a long moment she stood staring at the crowd with bright eyes, wishing she could join them despite the obligations that called to her, but then, with a shake of her head, moved away towards the nearest wing of the Houses.

The door she pushed open led to a dark room. Taking a step inside, she reached with one hand and tended an oil-lamp that stood on a nearby table, illuminating the space with pale yellow light. It was a store-room: rows upon rows of shelves lined the walls above short cabinets, and a couple of low tables were placed there also, and a long, narrow bench in one corner. Jars and bottles, flasks and bowls of various shapes and sizes filled the shelves, some containing liquids and others powders or dried herbs. On the worktop that was attached to the cabinets were two bronze sets of mortar and pestle, and brass balance scales, and empty phials. A modest, still-burning hearth with a large kettle for boiling water was nearby, and sprigs of freshly culled herbs were hung from hooks in the wall to dry.

The young woman walked to the cabinet at the far side and deposited the small bundle she held on the work-surface. She adjusted the thin light-coloured veil that covered her hair, securing the knot that fastened it at the nape of her neck, and unfolded the cloth she had set down before her.

She dropped the grey-green leaves it held in a bowl, pouring boiling water over them and covering the deep vessel. Letting the tea steep for a few minutes, she strained the liquid into a cup, adding some drops of lemon juice and honey to temper the flavour. Smoothing her healer's garb, the young woman then produced a small tray from a cabinet drawer to hold the cup and went from the store-room with her load.

The next chamber she entered was lit brightly, the lamp casting feeble shadows here and there as it flickered.

"I apologise for my lateness, Lord Húron," the healer addressed the man standing at the window as she placed the salver on a high table.

The man had turned round at the sound of footsteps and now waved her apology off with a kind grin before taking the cup she offered. "Thank you, child." His bearing was proud, his hair and beard flecked with much grey and his smiling eyes keen.

The young woman mirrored his expression involuntarily. The lord Húron had been a captain of Gondor, permanently disabled in battle two years previously. Yielding his office to another, he had hoped for a quiet retirement, yet a recurring decline to his health currently confined him to the Houses of Healing. He and her father had been close friends, and the lord Húron had ever been as kind as a parent to her.

At present he sat on the bed and sipped the hot tea, savouring the subtle aroma of sage wafting from the cup. After a few moments he spoke again: "Those bone-chilling cries a while ago, what were they?"

The young healer met his serene gaze. "Winged beasts from Mordor," she replied softly, willing her voice to remain steady. "They assailed Captain Faramir and three of his company, but Mithrandir drove them away."

The Lord Húron frowned. "Then they were fortunate indeed," he said finally. "Those fell creatures sounded mighty unkind." His grave voice made the young woman shiver inwardly.

* * *

It was about two hours later that she found herself freed from duties, coming to stand beneath an arbour grown with lilac-coloured trailing plants. The veil that had covered her hair was now upon her shoulders, worn as one might a shawl, revealing the thick plait that went almost to the middle of her back, dark as rich-brown lebethron-wood. The night was quiet and black and starless, yet the moon shone white and cold in the sky. The healer allowed the latticework to support some of her weight, closing her eyes and concentrating on the simple act of breathing. Too soon, it seemed, solid footfalls punctuated the silence. Her lids fluttered open and she spun on her heel.

"Faramir!"

The dark-haired man clad in the green and brown raiment of the Rangers of Ithilien mirrored her joyous smile, and his grey eyes glinted. With a couple of long strides he reached her and tenderly took her hand in his. Tall though she was, the young woman had to tip her head backwards to meet his gaze. He was beaming at her still, yet the healer's delight was suddenly drained, and she stared up at Faramir with troubled eyes.

"Those men who were with you..."

"Arvinion and Damhir are not among them," he said quickly, guessing her mind. "And all are well," he added as an afterthought, peering into her relaxing face. "I had half-thought Father would persuade you to join those going to Lossarnach: he cares for you so."

The young woman gave a slight shake of her head. "He asked, indeed, but I could not go, not when I have duties here." She studied him then, for the first time noting the signs of fatigue that traced his features. "You are weary, cousin," she spoke softly. "Come and sit a while." She led him to one of the benches of carven wood and iron that dotted the garden-plot between the nearest wing of the Houses of Healing and their enclosing shrubbery hedge, bordered by paths of light stone.

He sat and took a deep breath of the flower-sweet air, absently following the young woman with his eyes as she bade him wait and hurried towards the adjacent building. At that moment it suddenly struck Faramir how closely she resembled her mother who had passed away a little over twenty winters before. Indeed, she was no longer the child who had accompanied her sick parent to the Houses of Healing so many years previously.

His thoughts did not have the time to wander far: before long the healer had returned, bearing a cup.

"Drink this," she said quietly. "It will soothe you."

Faramir accepted the cup gratefully, giving its contents a cursory sniff. In truth, he had resolved to come to the Houses with half a mind to seek his cousin and ask for a draught to ease his jadedness. With a warm smile he conveyed his gratitude and took a long sip. Then, as he swallowed, a grimace of distaste warped his features.

"You are certain this is valerian and not hemlock, Idrin?"

The young healer started. Then, she belatedly noted the almost impish flicker in Faramir's eyes. A laugh escaped her lips: witnessing the thoughtful captain entertain such light talk had become a rarity in recent months, and it now cheered her to see him in this good mood. "Indeed. Were I trying to poison you, Faramir, I would have chosen a more subtle way." Still, she should have added more honey.

The corners of Faramir's mouth twitched, and he began to laugh with her. When his chuckle died down, he took a breath and drained the cup.

"I am glad thou art well." Idrin's voice sobered and for a while she said no more. "Now, what news from Ithilien?"

Faramir let out a heavy breath. "The Dark Lord is assembling his armies: Orcs and Easterlings and Men of Harad riding _mûmakil_. We ambushed a company of Southrons on the North Road, yet the great beast with them took many lives in its passage, men on both sides." As he spoke of the _mûmak_ he saw his cousin begin to tense and then, with a private little shake of her head, relax again. The Captain of Gondor regarded her for a moment and fell quiet, knowing her thought had turned to one such past attack nearly a year ago.

"Have you seen the Halfling who came with Mithrandir?" asked Idrin suddenly. "They say he travelled with Boromir." She paused. The riddling words in her cousins' visions came back to her once more, kindling her thought as they had done when she heard that the wizard's companion was a Halfling. "Yet, if he were the one of whom the rhyme in your dreams spoke, his fate would lie in some deed of valour, surely, and not here in serving a Lord of Men."

Faramir stirred and gazed at her long before speaking, his words slow. "I have seen him, yes. He was a companion of Boromir indeed: their fellowship set out from Imladris but their paths afterwards parted. We found two of that sundered company – two Halflings – in Ithilien, going east."

"It must be a desperate errand that would take them so far beyond the Anduin." The healer looked at her cousin thoughtfully, the crease above the bridge of her nose deepening as she sat in silence. "Our doom then lies with them, and with Isildur's Bane – whatever that may be –, or so I read the riddle."

The Captain of the Rangers shifted in his seat as Idrin gazed into the darkness. "So it would appear," he returned.

The healer was quiet for a brief spell, her eyes becoming unfocused, and the Steward Denethor's secondborn son wondered for a moment if a question was forthcoming. Then Idrin came back to herself.

"It's growing late and I should let you go to your rest."

Ease flooded Faramir's features. "I admit I would welcome sleep in a soft bed – it has been a long ten days," he said. He rose and proffered his arm to his cousin. She rested her hand lightly on his forearm, falling into step beside him as they wove their way out of the garden and up towards the Citadel.

The entrance hall of the Steward's lodgings was empty, yet sudden movement came from a wide corridor while they made for the great staircase that led to the upper floor and their private chambers. Walking slowly, the tall figure of Denethor paced the floor towards them, yet his eyes were downcast.

Idrin paused in her stride, noting the heavy tread and slight stoop of the shoulders as he came nearer, and with a small gesture bade Faramir go on without her. He ascended the stair readily, and she waited until the Steward was several paces from her before addressing him: "You look worn, Uncle. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?"

The man looked up, meeting her gaze silently. "I have learnt many things this day that trouble me, and no draught can ease my fatigue," he returned at last. He opened his mouth again but closed it without speaking, and a brief spell passed. "Seek your bed and in time I shall do the same, though sleep will not come quickly, I deem."

Despite the gentler tone in his voice, the set of his mouth told Idrin he would speak no more of whatever it was that burdened him. The young woman regarded him for but a moment more. "Good-night, then," she said quietly, turning on her heel while the Steward of Gondor gazed pensively after her.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The sounds of the city came through the open window more and more infrequently as the day waxed towards noon. The room looking out onto the road was sparely furnished, with a long table, four chairs and a sideboard, but a crackling fire burned on the wide hearth at one end.

"It has mended well, Angdan."

Sitting across a tall, heavy-set man, Idrin had fixed her gaze on his outstretched arm, pressing firmly on the bare skin as she ran her hands from elbow to fingertips. Alert to any signs of discomfort or pain, she nodded to herself when he displayed none and looked up at him. "You can return to work, but do not tax yourself – after such a fracture, an arm needs to regain its strength at its own pace."

"It is about time I went back to my smithy," said the swarthy man with a spark in his eyes. "There is much to be done and the lad has been alone there too long." He chuckled quietly to himself, his gaze finding the bandages and splint discarded on the table. "I had never thought I would miss my hammer and anvil so."

The healer's lip curled as she began to fasten the flap of her satchel. "Just remember to mind your arm."

"I will," returned the blacksmith. "Thank you, Mistress Idrin."

* * *

The streets were quiet as the healer made her way up to the sixth circle. With most of the population of the city gone south to refuge, the emptiness felt all-engulfing. Idrin frowned at the deepening gloom – where the sun should be shining, the morning seemed to cling to twilight. She had almost passed the stables by the entrance to the Citadel when the murmur of voices speaking quietly together caught her attention. Recognising Faramir's voice among them, she slowed her pace and pushed open the gate to her right.

When she reached the large building near the towering bastion, the scent of fresh hay mingled with the distinct smell of horses rushed to fill her nostrils. Her nose crinkled and a grimace twisted her features. The healer stopped short before the doorway, snorting a breath, and looked inside.

Stablehands went hither and thither, tending to animals and boxes, and seeing to riding equipment in need of repair. The Rangers of Ithilien who had come with Faramir the previous evening busied themselves with saddling their horses while conversing softly. Of the four men, the Captain of Gondor was nearest the door, but he now kept silent, his gaze low as he adjusted his mount's girth straps with deft fingers.

Finding him, Idrin made to enter but checked herself suddenly, looking down. She contemplated the layer of mucky straw coating the floor for a long moment and then picked up her skirts. Holding the fabric well above the ground, she crossed the threshold carefully, gaze straying to her shoes every now and then. When she came near the four men, she discerned that all were clad in shining mail under their green hooded cloaks. Swords hung at their sides and helms stood on a low bench at their feet. She saw now that Faramir wore a grave expression and recalled hearing rumour of the Steward's Council that had been held earlier that morning. Idrin gazed at him in silence for a few seconds.

"Is it wise to risk so much at Osgiliath?" The healer padded closer.

The Captain of the Rangers turned and looked at her with a keen eye. When he spoke, his tone was cool: "The Lord of the City judges we should not yield the River so lightly." He watched Idrin part her lips in silent exclamation and then close her mouth without uttering a word, inclining her head in recognition. Faramir shifted his gaze.

"My men are at Osgiliath," he continued, his voice no more than a soft whisper and his eyes staring without seeing. "I cannot leave them there to face this Enemy alone." He fell quiet. When he blinked, the Captain of Gondor saw his cousin was still looking at him in silence. He held her gaze.

Idrin returned no answer, but after a moment gave a half-nod. "Be safe," she said, placing a hand lightly on his forearm.

Faramir touched her fingers. "Farewell." His voice was clear and solemn. He reached for his helm, took the horse's reins in his free hand, and led the destrier from his box. Waiting silently in the background, the three Rangers now followed him without speaking, leading their own mounts and offering curt nods of acknowledgement to the young woman.

Idrin turned to watch them as they left the stables, her gaze fixed on their retreating forms. A feeling of dread filled her at that instant, remembering the winged fell creatures and their chilling cries. She shivered and blinked. Willing the black thoughts away, she let her eyes trace a patch of sunlight on the floor and sought the familiar sight of her surroundings.

The stables were fair and large enough to house five scores of horses, although it had been long since such a number was accommodated. Sturdy pillars upheld the roof on either side of the gate to each box, and connected to them were arched partitions of dark wood that divided one box from the next, low enough to allow the horses a measure of interaction with their neighbours. Narrow windows were cut into the walls at equal intervals to let the light in, and fitted to them were shutters that could be closed to keep out rain and cold. Slender lanterns hung from beams in the ceiling, providing additional illumination when need arose.

Currently, the stables played host to the grey war-horses of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth who had arrived in Minas Tirith two days earlier. In their presence, they hummed with brisk activity, becoming more busy and full of life than they had been in many a year.

Seeing the stablehands go about their work, Idrin registered the lateness of the hour. She silently berated herself, once more gathering her skirts and making her way outside.

* * *

The rest of the day was as brown and bleak as the morning that had preceded it, and the sun was veiled by muted clouds. Time and again disembodied cries could be heard from high above the seventh level: the winged beasts of Mordor had returned, circling the stone fortress like ominous harbingers of doom.

"Do you think they can hold Osgiliath?" Idrin turned from the window and the black night outside, her gaze finding the Lord Húron. Then she huffed suddenly, eyes narrowing. "'Twas madness to send them there. Surely it would be more prudent to conserve our force and man the City's walls instead?" It had not been long since the ill news came that the Enemy had sent forth a host to win the passage of Anduin, led by the dreaded Lord of Minas Morgul.

The man looked at her with a discerning eye. "We cannot afford to lose companies, true, but what was decided cannot be undone. Denethor was aware of the risk." The Steward of Gondor had never been a rash man, even if he did follow his own mind after listening to the counsel of others, yet the current consequences of his pride might prove dire.

Idrin let out a heavy breath. "I fear for him," she said finally. "He does not sleep well as of late." The young woman made to continue but held back her words. Then she sighed. "I only hope we do not pay too dearly for this decision. Enough lives were lost past June." She turned from the retired captain, her gaze fixing on the blackness outside.

Húron studied the healer, taking in the hastily set jaw and crisp movements, and after a few moments of silence joined her by the window.

* * *

The next day brought no comfort. Word came that the armies of the Dark Lord had crossed the River and the company of Faramir were retreating to the Rammas Echor, greatly outnumbered.

It was one hour after sunset that Idrin found herself standing before the short cabinets in a store-room in the Houses of Healing, pouring the thick content of a pot into shallow jars. The golden-yellow preparation gave off a scent not unlike that of pine-tree sap, mild and pleasant. The healer caught herself humming softly as she worked, sealing the containers and tying small labels to the wide neck of each before placing them on the long shelf above the cabinets.

The task of cleaning and tidying up that followed left her mind free to wander – the humming ceased and her expression gradually became sober, eyes straying to the small window facing eastwards as the news from that morning returned to the forefront of her consciousness. There had been no tidings since then, no word to soothe the thought or end the hopeless waiting of those whose loved ones fought. The healer drew a long breath. When she went from the room, catching the eye of a middle-aged healer in farewell, Idrin was quiet and her face was pensive.

She walked up the sloping tunnel that led to the seventh circle, her thought turning to the small library standing near the south wall of the Citadel: books always managed to school her restlessness. Situated by the King's House and facing the White Tower, the library was built by Ecthelion II for his wife, Almiel¹ – an elegant structure of pale-coloured stone, surrounded by well-tended copses of low shrubbery, and filled with a valuable collection of reading material.

The young woman spoke words of greeting to the guard standing at the gate; he inclined his head and stepped aside, letting her pass. As the lamp-lit tunnel fell away behind her, Idrin once more turned her gaze eastward, and there, beside the great battlement that crowned the bastion behind her, saw a lone dark figure standing on a stone seat beneath an embrasure-sill nearly thirty feet away. She blinked, wondering whyever a child was in the Citadel – the few lads currently left in Minas Tirith never ventured past the seventh gate.

"Good evening."

The voice that broke the silence was polite, and as Idrin's eyes adjusted to the low light beyond the tunnel, she saw that the small person's head was turned towards her. He was clad in the black and silver livery of the Tower, and by him was a tall helm. It was no Man-child, the healer realised, but the Halfling who had come to the City with Mithrandir.

"Good evening," she returned, walking towards the stone seat and discerning that he was gazing at her with the same curiosity with which she was looking at him. "You are Peregrin, are you not?"

"I am," replied the Halfling. "Peregrin Took, or Pippin, if you like." He looked long at the young woman as she moved closer with easy grace, taking in the garb she wore. "You are a healer?" He had caught glimpses of the women serving in the Houses of Healing while acquainting himself with the city.

"Indeed, I am," she answered. "My name is Idrin."

Pippin gazed at her, wondering at her courtly bearing. After a few moments, he caught himself and looked away, but the young woman's eyes were fixed on the eastern skyline. He spun on his heel and his spirits plummeted.

There, above the Mountains of Shadow stretched massive clouds, dark and brown and touched with crimson-red. They looked ominous, brimming with blazing flashes, but no rumbling noise issued from them and there was only a distant impact to the air, like a clap of thunder with no sound.

A sudden breath of wind ruffled Pippin's almost golden mop of hair,² and he sighed. "It's terrible to simply stand and wait for battle to come. Being idle makes everything look so bleak."

"It does," the young woman agreed, and as she turned her eyes towards the great curve of the Anduin, the Hobbit saw a shadow pass over her face. "And not knowing if your loved ones are safe makes it worse. My brothers and cousin are at Osgiliath."

"My friends are in Rohan, and I would dearly like to see them again," said Pippin. "I suppose I might, if King Théoden comes."

The healer did not speak, regarding the silent Halfling, but after a moment she shook her head. "Come, Master Peregrin, it does no good to dwell on such thoughts." An instant of quiet passed. "I am bound for the Citadel's library. Would you care to join me?"

Pippin gazed at her, blinking. "But I was given to understand that that library was –" He stopped, peering into her face.

His companion looked at him and her lips twitched. "The Steward's family and their guests are free to use it," she said.

The frown creasing the Halfling's brow fled as he regarded her more closely, noting the high cheekbones. "You are kin to the Lord?"

"His sister was my mother," answered Idrin, allowing a spell of silence to follow her words. "Will you not come with me?"

Pippin looked over the fields of the Pelennor and darkness weighed on his heart again. "I would be poor company," he said. "My thought is heavy this evening, and that's why I'm out of doors – the night air might help clear my head."

The young woman nodded in understanding and took a step back from the wall. "I bid you good-night, then."

Watching her walk towards the library, Pippin knew he would find no rest that night. Gandalf was gone and the East looked more menacing than ever. He turned his gaze to Osgiliath and the Mountains of Shadow beyond, hopped down from the seat and began making his way to the sharp edge of the bastion with its wide embrasure, his thought going to Frodo and Sam.

* * *

¹ Tolkien does not give us any details concerning the wife of Ecthelion II; naming her _Almiel_ is of my invention.

² '. . . and [Peregrin Took I has] got hair that's almost golden.' ( _The History of Middle-earth: Sauron Defeated_ , Part One, Chapter XI)


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Idrin started to wakefulness, her heart racing. She felt warmth around her and was calmed somewhat, remembering she lay in her bed. Her chamber was dark and no light peeked in through the window-panes: the sun had not yet risen. The vague, unpleasant sensation which had woken her lingered, yet she could not recall dreaming. The young woman slid out of bed and padded across the thick rug to the lattice window.

Opening a small pane to a crack, she saw the grey veil of dawn outside the Steward's lodgings in the Citadel had not yet lifted. The early morning seemed hazy as with a brown mist. A low, rolling boom rent the silence then, making Idrin frown: whatever caused it must be a massive contraption indeed if the sound could penetrate the thick stone walls of the Steward's House that Mardil Voronwë had built during the first years of his rule.¹ She peered outside. Her window faced south, commanding a sweeping view of the Pelennor fields and, farther off, of the glittering bend of the Anduin, yet she could see nothing that would explain the dull noise resonating from afar.

Stepping back from the wall, the young woman felt the unexpected coolness of metal against her skin and turned promptly, steadying the teetering ornament. Carefully, she set the old bronze hummingbird away from the night-table's edge but did not withdraw her hand, staring at it instead.

After a spell she lit a candle and sat at her dressing-table, reaching for a small ornate box in front of the looking-glass. Light fingers traced the designs on the lid. The young woman opened it and gazed within, her eyes cast down as she picked up a brooch that lay there, the silver clasp worked in the shape of a bird. Silence filled the bedchamber again, and Idrin ran a finger along the dully glinting surface, her lips twitching. Then, she drew the lid down and stood, turning from the dressing-table.

Finishing her morning toilet, she dressed and went down to the dining hall for the first meal of the day. There, a brazier of charcoal burned with yellow flame, the shadows it cast dancing on the finely carved cabinets and elaborate hangings on the wall.

Breakfast was a silent affair as she sat alone at the dark-oak table, but it had not always been so. Idrin could recall laughter and good cheer in that same hall, during those times when one – or even both – of her cousins would break their fast with her, when no duties kept them away from the City. And it was many times when her uncle and she sat at meals together, although their talk then was quiet and they mostly ate in companionable silence. Boromir's death and the growing threat in the East weighed down on the Steward recently, however, and the young woman seldom chanced upon him at the breakfast table anymore.

As though in answer to her thoughts, the tall, unbent figure of Denethor entered the hall. He looked worn and his dark eyes were sunken.

“Uncle, good morning,” Idrin offered, studying the silent man who advanced slowly towards the table.

He turned to her and the healer thought she saw a faint twitch of lips light the pale face. Yet, a moment later the flickering expression vanished and grimness took its place. “I wonder,” the Steward murmured to himself, but the softly spoken words did not reach the young woman's ears.

She had been looking at him closely. “You have not slept well again,” she said gently. “Come, sit. I will send for another plate.”

 A dull rumble coming from afar was heard, and Idrin turned to look through the large window opening north to the view of the Court of the Fountain. A small crease settled on the bridge of her nose momentarily, and then the young woman’s face smoothed as understanding came.

"The Enemy has taken the Pelennor Wall," said Denethor when Idrin’s eyes met his, voicing her thought.

Spoken aloud, the words stirred a feeling of unease within her. “Has there been news of Faramir and his company?” she asked.

“No, there is no news,” replied the Steward, a cloud passing over his face; “yet in the South the fleet of Umbar draws near to Pelargir.”

The knowledge of this did not surprise the young woman – her uncle had long sight, and some claimed he could even glimpse the future.

Denethor stirred suddenly then as though to quit the room, but Idrin spoke: “Have some bread and cheese at the very least ere you go!” Even as she said this, she motioned to a serving-man.

The Steward remained standing and contemplated the table but sat near her when the servant brought him plate and goblet and served him. 

* * *

The veiled sun was climbing in the sky when a great noise filled the streets of the City. The sharp sound of hooves on stone and the thud of heavy wheels, mingled with the occasional rise and fall of men's voices, ascended slowly towards the high levels of Minas Tirith. An orderly line of wains drawn by sturdy horses halted inside the gate of the Houses of Healing, flanked by a dozen grim men on horseback. At the front, riding by the second wagon, was the brilliant figure of Gandalf the White, and he alone seemed unweary.

The porter of the Houses had stepped out of his little lodging to meet the men as they dismounted, and then one of them hurried to seek the Warden while the others made it their task to help the less gravely injured onto solid ground.

It was not long before the soldier returned, followed closely by the grey-haired, tall man who was the head of healers and orderlies, and the old wife Ioreth. With a swift glance at the wains and their load, the Warden bade some of the men go with the elderly woman and fetch litters to carry those who had difficulty walking. He stood motionless, watching as the men returned and the wounded soldiers began to dwindle and disappear into the Houses.

"So it begins," he murmured quietly, his darkened eyes fixed upon the retreating figures of the survivors from the Causeway Forts, a hand twitching momentarily against the deep-blue fabric of his robes.

"Yes," came the wizard's even voice from his side as he too gazed after them, "and the hours to come shall be long, Master Warden." With that he turned and led Shadowfax from the gate, releasing him into the care of one of the stablehands who had come to take wains and horses away.

* * *

The air was thick with the smell of strong spirits. Idrin bent over the wounded Ranger, her fingers running lightly along the crude bandage wrapped around his head. It was stained rusty brown. Carefully, she removed the long strip of fabric and took a good look at the wound. The gash running from his hairline to his left eye was deep, but no fluid leaked from it and the edges were smooth – a sign that it wouldn't need stitching.

The healer took a soft pad of cloth from the tray on the stand by the man's bed and soaked it with a clear spirit. The soldier sat up straighter, anticipating the sting. He winced as the liquid came in contact with his skin but made no complaint. A few moments later, Idrin folded the loosely woven pad and began scrubbing gently along the edges of the wound.

"'Twas terrible." After a long while of following her movements with his eyes without uttering a word, the man finally spoke. His voice was low. "Never before have I seen so large a horde. Orcs and Southrons and Easterlings. And there were wolves, those giant wolves from Wilderland. Bearlike in the face and long-muzzled with sharp fangs. Never before had we known them to come so far south. They tore at the flesh and ripped men to pieces as though they were rag dolls."  
  
His dark eyes had become glassy while he spoke, but in the quiet that ensued he seemed to come back to himself and focus on the face of the woman tending to him. He shook his head. "Forgive me, Mistress Healer," he said. "You must have heard this ghastly tale more than enough times today."

Idrin paused in the middle of pressing a clean patch of cotton-cloth to the salve she had applied to the Ranger's wound and looked at him, absently noting the flecks of dried blood crusting his short beard. "Do not apologise, Mablung," she said. "Speaking of it will unburden your mind." She placed a bandage over the dressing and began wrapping it around his head. "It has been many years since such accounts succeeded in frightening me,” she added: “growing up in a household of men makes one familiar with the gruesome bits of battle." Her father and brothers and cousins had always taken care to limit the grim details during talk of skirmishes in her presence, but they did not coddle her. The thought called to mind an image of cool grey eyes and the semblance of laughter, and the healer's face dimmed for a moment.

She secured the bandage carefully with a small clasping pin and looked at Mablung again, this time studying the long wound on his side which she had previously treated and sewn. Then she rose from the chair she had been sitting in. "Now, rest," she said, her tone gentle.

The Ranger closed his eyes, and Idrin turned to the tray on the night-table, picking it up and carrying it to one of the tiered shelves placed along the walls away from the beds. Once its contents were stored in their rightful place, the used bandages and dressings discarded into the nearby disposal basket, the healer took the tray to the adjacent store-room to be washed and returned to the sick hall, a cup in her hands.

She made her way to a bed near the narrow window. The young man lying on it turned to her as she stopped by him, and his eyes fixed on the cup.

"This will take the pain and bring sleep," she said and slipped a hand under his head, helping him lift it.

He drank from the cup slowly, emptying it in four long sips, and lowered his head onto the pillow once more. "Thank you." The broken whisper was drowned in a violent fit that contorted his face, and his eyes squeezed shut.

Idrin touched him gently on the shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort, watching his broken arm stiffen under the hardened bandage that held it fast. When his body relaxed, she withdrew her hand and opened her mouth to speak.

The soldier grasped at her fingers. "Please, stay." There was urgency in his weak voice and his eyes bore into hers in an unspoken plea. "Until the pain goes," he went on, attempting to gather his manners and sound more calm.

Idrin closed her mouth and sat in the chair by the bed, setting aside the cup she held. He was young, she observed, not even in his second decade, and his clean-shaven face made this more evident. This battle had probably been his first.  
Long seconds passed in silence. "I had always thought that the Rammas could not be breached," the young man spoke again in a whisper and then said no more, staring far-off without seeing.  
  
Idrin watched him quietly as his eyes drifted closed and his breathing became soft and even. Then, she turned from the peaceful face and rose, looking about the ward. Her eyes flitted from bed to door, the early touches of anxiety suddenly settling on her features.

“Mistress Idrin.”

The young voice drew her attention and she turned to see a boy looking up at her. She recognised him as the son of one of the Guards of the Citadel.

“Your brothers send word that they have returned and are well, lady,” the lad continued promptly.

The young woman beamed at him and her face was lit. “And the Lord Faramir?”

The boy took a second before answering. “He was wounded,” he said hesitatingly. “The Prince Imrahil took him to the White Tower; I am to find Master Neston. That is all I know, lady.”

Idrin's countenance darkened and she was silent. “Thank you, Bergil,” she said at last. As the lad took his leave, the healer noted the deepening evening outside, calculating the time to the end of her work hours. But the wounded come into the Houses of Healing were many and there was much to do: it had grown very late when she was finally free to go to her rest and by then she felt drained of all energy.

* * *

¹ In Tolkien's works, there is no explicit mention concerning the lodgings of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor. Given the elevation of the Stewards from chief counsellors to the King to rulers in the King's absence after the demise of Eärnur, it is plausible that lodgings were built to accommodate them and their families in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. Since the living quarters for the Kings and their families were named _the King's House_ , it seems fitting that the living quarters for the Ruling Stewards should bear the name _the Steward's House_.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

In the hour before dawn, Idrin left the Steward's House. Her footsteps filled the empty Court with sound as she walked, passing beyond the seventh gate and descending from the Citadel. The streets were quiet and the only signs of movement came from the watchmen on the walls. There was no light: the tall lamp-posts placed along the paved way and the lanterns hung beneath high arches were dark and cheerless. The emptiness was eerie, giving birth to a feeling of unease in her gut and heart.

The young woman was glad to catch sight of her destination. Her father's townhouse was located halfway between the great bastion and the gate to the fifth circle of the city, its back facing north-east. It was an elegant two-storey structure, standing back from the street and separated from it by a wide strip of garden. The well-tended flowerbeds and shrubbery extended to the rear of the building, and there the greenery stretched all the way to the narrow lane that ran along the wall circling the fifth level.

Light shone from a window on the ground floor. Idrin pushed open the gate to the garden and let herself into the house. She found her brothers in the kitchen, girt for battle and sitting quietly at breakfast.

Both looked up as she entered and stood promptly, their faces lit. They embraced her long, and she held them close.

"Good morning, sister." The elder of the pair watched her as she unfastened her cloak and draped it over a chair before sitting, the ghost of a smile on his features. As his brother resumed his seat, the eldest turned to a cupboard and drew out a pewter cup, filling it with clear liquid from a pitcher and offering it to his sister.

"I am glad both of you are well, Arvinion." Idrin's eyes shone with relief. She accepted the cup but took a moment to study her siblings. The stains of battle had been washed from their skin, yet the young woman's brow furrowed when she took a good look at her second brother: long carmine-red marks covered the back of his hands, sore and raw. "You have seen to those, I hope, Damhir?"

Her brother glanced down and then looked up at his sister with a shrug. "They are merely scratches and bruises."

"Deep and many inflamed scratches," she stressed. "You may dismiss it now, but more strenuous movement will increase the pain. Do not leave them like that."

Damhir regarded her for a moment, noting the set jaw and keen gaze. He let out a small breath. "If it shall put your mind at ease, I will."

One corner of Idrin's mouth twitched slightly. After some time her eyes darkened. "What of Faramir? I was told that he was taken to the Tower and that a healer was sent for, but there has been no news since last night." Her gaze fixed on the elder of her brothers, seeking reassurance that all was well.

"The wound was not a life-threatening one; it was cleaned and dressed when they made a bed ready for him," replied Arvinion. "We sat with him for a while, but he had yet to open his eyes when we left."

"Master Neston says his body needs time to recollect itself," said Damhir.

Idrin looked at him. The news of Faramir's not having woken was disquieting, yet perhaps what he required was time indeed. "Yes, often the body merely needs rest," the young woman spoke at last, the lines on her face smoothing. Idly, she took a sip from her cup and watched her brothers' movements as they finished their light meal.

"The Halfling in the Tower, how came he to wear the black and silver of the Guards of the Citadel?"

Arvinion's question made her turn to him.

"I understand that he has freely offered his service to the Steward, though I do not know why," she answered.

"A noble gesture," said Arvinion. "We found two of his kinsmen in Ithilien seven days ago." He paused, recalling the unlikely meeting. "Hardy folk, these Halflings," he went on. "They must be made of stern stuff indeed to manage such a journey." A spark glinted in his eyes. "Yet, I would like to know what became of their companions – one of them said there was a Dúnadan in their fellowship, a direct descendant of Isildur. If his claim is true, mayhap our fortune in this war would change."

"The Halfling Peregrin, Uncle's esquire, said his companions were with King Théoden," returned Idrin. Then she looked at her brother thoughtfully. "An heir of Isildur would be news indeed. No doubt we shall know the truth of it, should he come while Minas Tirith still stands."

"There is yet hope for that," said Damhir. "If the Red Arrow has reached Théoden without delay, the Rohirrim should be riding through eastern Anórien this day." He looked at Idrin closely, studying her face. "What of you, sister?" he asked. "How are you?"

"I am well," answered the young woman. "There has been much to do at the Houses since yesterday – such a number of wounded have never come to us before. Yet, the strange thing is that quite a few of them lie cold and murmuring as in a deep dream and do not wake though their hurts have been tended."

In the momentary silence that followed her words, Idrin glanced at the window and did not note the shadow passing over Arvinion's and Damhir's faces.

"The Warden will call a meeting this morning," she continued, "in order to appoint duties for when the injured from the field begin to come in." The healer drained her cup. "And I should be on my way or else I shall be late." She stood, fastening her cloak about her neck, and gazed at her brothers who had risen with her. "Take care." Idrin fixed her eyes on each in turn, laying a hand on their mail-clad arms.

"And thou also, sister."

With a last look she turned on her heel, heading alone into the grey dawn outside.

* * *

The sky had grown lighter by the time Idrin passed the gate to the Houses of Healing. The modest, six-sided building of the library where the gathering would take place was alive with the hum of voices, and the long tables dotting the area between the bookcases were beginning to crowd.

When all were assembled, the Warden climbed the raised platform running along the north-west side of the building, a ray of early sun glinting on the silver thread embroidering the breast of his robes. Silence fell.

"Battle will soon be upon us," he began. "Strong as the Great Gate might be, the armies of the Enemy are vast, led by a terrible Captain. We must work swiftly and efficiently – for that reason groups shall be formed and each will be charged with certain tasks."

Then the Warden set about assorting his people and assigning duties. When he finished, no voice broke the quiet. He spoke again: "You shall now have one hour to see to any affairs in need of attention and to settle into the Healers' wing. From that time onward, we must all be in constant readiness."

With those words the gathering was ended, and the press of healers and orderlies dispersed.

Idrin slowly made her way to the Citadel. As she came onto the seventh level, the only sound that greeted her was the soft drizzle of waterdrops falling from the branches of the withered tree over the fountain-pool. Her footsteps turned to the Steward's House, her eyes lingering on the high-angled roofs and arched windows.

The young woman's stomach clenched at that moment, and she realised she might never look upon that house again. For the first time the knowledge that the future was indeed bleak sank in in earnest. The healer's body tensed and her heart fluttered in her chest.

A long, dark cloud cast its shadow on the High Court, and Idrin looked up. As she gazed at the grey mass, her thought began to shift. Battle and death might be drawing near, yet the present now held more import: the sick and injured in the Houses of Healing. She thought of Faramir lying in the Tower of Ecthelion and made her way across the Place of the Fountain.

A guard directed her to the high chamber the son of Denethor was laid in. It had been years since she last went beyond the Tower Hall, yet the bareness of white stone as she ascended the winding stair still struck her.

The room was quite as she remembered it from the few times she had been there in her early youth: large but plain, with barely a handful of furniture and no articles to make it feel comfortable. Yet, the White Tower was not built as housing, after all, and the few chambers within its walls were not meant to serve as living quarters.

Walking in, she saw the Halfling Peregrin tending to the small fire in the hearth, and the Lord of the City slumbering in a cushioned chair.

Quietly, Idrin acknowledged Pippin and looked over to where Faramir lay. "Has he woken at all?"

The Halfling sighed. "No, not yet." He got to his feet and took his position by the door, gazing sadly at the prostrate figure of Denethor's son.

Idrin went to the bed: Faramir lay motionless, his eyes closed and his face pale. For a brief instant dread gripped at her and she remembered the deeply dreaming sick in the Houses. Yet, her cousin slept more easily than they and his brow, though cool, was not icy to the touch.

Those small observations gave her comfort, and the young woman sat by him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Why did you choose to stay here, lady? You are the Steward's niece," the Hobbit's soft voice broke the quiet, faltering when the healer's gaze found his face. "Surely the south vales are safer."

"For now, perhaps," returned Idrin. "I chose to stay because I want to help and I do not like to abandon those under my care. If I went to refuge I would merely sit in a silent house, waiting idly for all to end."

Pippin saw the glimmer in the young woman's eyes before she turned to Faramir again, and said no more.

Idrin passed a gentle hand over the man's brow and warmth stirred in her breast: his skin felt less cold. The healer rose quietly from her chair then and glanced at the sleeping form of Denethor nearby. The firelight danced on a restive face grown old before its time, and the young woman thought how worn the Lord of Minas Tirith looked.

She withdrew to the door and glanced back at Faramir once more.

Pippin looked up at her. "Maybe he will wake by the end of this day. He does not appear as deathlike as when he was brought here."

"I should be glad to see him wake before I have to return to the Houses," said Idrin, "yet I must take my leave. Fare you well, Peregrin."

The Halfling stepped back to let her through the door. "Farewell, lady."

* * *

The late hours of the night were drawing near but hollow rumbles and red flashes rent the quiet within the City. Time and again shrill cries came from high above the seventh level, disembodied and eerie. The watchers on the walls were still, waiting.

In the south part of the garden in the Houses of Healing, Idrin crouched before a large bed of herbs set apart from the flower-plots, a basket beside her. A glint of silver near her fingers twinkled in the faint lantern-light, her hands moving swiftly as the blade cut stem after stem.

A noise from beyond the silent premises of the Houses made her and the healer by her side pause in their work and look up. Riding down the road leading to the gate of the sixth circle, one clothed in brilliant white and the other clad in silver armour and blue cloak, were the stately figures of Mithrandir and the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. They halted near the arched entryway, exchanging brief words with the soldiers on the battlements and then descended to the lower level.

The sharp sound of the horses' hooves faded, and the two women resumed their task. Minutes later, a low humming noise went up, rising slowly into a lilting tune. Idrin gazed up at the man on the guard-tower near them and caught herself smiling at the familiar melody, recalling her childhood home in Lossarnach.

A second voice joined in the song then, and the young woman saw the face of the older healer beside her light up as she sang while working. Her spirits lifting, Idrin bent over the herb-bed once more, the flowing tune from the Vale of Flowers surrounding her:

 _Under the Sun the streams flow clear_  
_from mountain-side to glade,_  
_threading their way to find the Sea_  
_through vales that never fade._

_Over blooming meadows songbirds fly,_  
_trilling with voices sweet:_  
_their tune is borne upon the wind_  
_and wingless tidings fleet._

A high shriek from far away made the voices falter. The rumbles from the plains below echoed forbiddingly up the stone city. On the watch-tower, the soldier cast his gaze down and fingered his bow broodingly. The two healers set their shoulders and continued their work in silence.

They returned to the healing wards not long afterwards, and within those stone walls and illuminated rooms, the brewing battle beyond seemed to lose its sway. Then as dawn approached, hollow booms echoed through the City like voiceless claps of thunder. Quiet came after the third blast and then horns, horns resounding up to the very Citadel.


	6. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5 **

With the yet unseen dawn came hope. The coming of the Rohirrim stirred the quelled flame in the hearts of the defenders of the Guarded City, fanning it to a blaze. New strength came to them and they burst like a river from the Great Gate to join the Horse-lords.

Slowly, the cold light of daybreak became golden and warm, and the muted colours of early morning turned clear and bright.

Returning from a store-room to the ward to which she had been assigned, Idrin suddenly frowned at the sight before her. She slowed her pace, her gaze fixed on the two darkly clad figures and the bier they carried.

They were not among those who fought on the Pelennor, for the stain of battle was not upon them. A closer look revealed that their livery was that of the Guards of the Tower. As they came nearer and the tall guard carrying the fore end of the bier shifted his stance, the young woman saw that his companion, who had to that moment remained hidden in his shadow, was the Halfling Peregrin.

She peered at the litter, wondering what could bring them here when not even the first wounded from the field had begun to arrive. The figure lain on the bier then took shape and Idrin drew a sharp breath. New speed came to her unhurried footsteps and she hastened towards the men.

The sombre Guard halted when he saw her. "We were told to bring him here and seek Master Neston, lady," he said.

Idrin laid the back of her hand on Faramir's forehead, feeling the hot clamminess of his skin. Sweat shone on his brow and he was as still as one dead, and the healer once again thought of the pale faces of those stricken with the Black Shadow. Yet, Faramir was not cold as they. She glanced up at the Guard.

"A sudden fever and sickness that are not understood have taken him," he said. For a moment he gazed closely at her, the muscles in his jaw working as though he was to speak again, but said no more.

Pippin cast him a sideways glance, the image of smoke and flame coming into his mind before the healer spoke once again.

"Come." She turned and led the way to a private chamber.

As the Guard and Peregrin laid Faramir in bed, Idrin  drew open  a thick window-pane . Pale light shone from the east, and the southern part of the garden was alive with the colours of first spring. Within, in a small vase on the bedside-table, where one of the orderlies had sought to brighten the background of stone and wood, was a single bloom of  _ alfirin_.

The healer smiled and turned to the Guard and the Halfling. Just then, a man in dark-blue robes entered the chamber, a twinkle of bright grey glimmering upon his breast.

He strode to the bed and bent over Faramir, feeling his brow and then moving his hand to his wrist. After a moment he turned to the orderly who had come with him, bidding her bring cool water and towels. As the woman left, his gaze found Idrin and their eyes met.

The young healer glanced at Faramir and drew to the door. The Guard and Pippin followed her outside, and then she turned to them.

"You have abandoned your posts to bring him here," she said, her expression soft. "You had better return to your duties before you are missed."

The Halfling looked at the floor and shifted from one foot to the other, and the tall Man dropped his gaze. Neither spoke, but both gave a curt nod of farewell before turning on their heel and walking away.

Thinking nothing of their silence, the healer gazed after their retreating forms until they rounded a corner and then made towards the ward in which she had been appointed to work.

* * *

The fiery disk of the sun had nearly sunk behind Mindolluin and the shadows of twilight were beginning to lengthen when the door to the treatment room Idrin had been working in opened yet again.

Turning from the long row of shelves and cabinets lining one wall, she saw the young orderly who assisted her stepping over the threshold, followed closely by two men.

They were tall and fair-haired and their shirts of mail glinted redly where the lamp-light caught them. The taller of the two leant slightly against the other, one arm gripping his companion's shoulder as he favoured his right leg. When they halted just inside the doorway, he stood erect, glancing about the room with keen eyes.

The orderly moved off and busied herself at the hip-high table by the short cabinets as the healer walked closer to the Riders. She studied the injured man, noting various shallow cuts and the white line of a healed scar above his left eyebrow, but no sign of serious hurts other than the slash across the outside of his right boot. A close look at his companion showed he was in no need of a healer's attention, and Idrin turned her gaze back to the limping Rider.

"Sit." She gestured at the high bench draped with a light cloth set to the right of the door.

The man remained standing. "It was not my wish to come here, Mistress," he said, using the Common Tongue, his speech slow and deep. "The battle on the field below is not yet over, and it is many times that I have fought bearing such injuries."

His steady gaze had found the healer, but an incredulous exclamation from the second Rider made the injured man turn and speak to him rapidly in their own tongue, his words crisp. When his companion returned no answer, the tall Rider looked back at the young woman and drew himself up to his full height.

The motion was followed by a grimace and a stifled groan, and Idrin glanced at the man's hurt limb. Then she stared up into his pale, proud face. "It seems that your leg would fail you if you were to go to the battlefield," she said.

His jaw clenching, the Rider looked at the healer with a calculating gaze. After a few seconds he shifted forward resolutely but quickly flung out an arm to clutch at his companion's shoulder as his legs gave way. With a huff he limped to the wide seat and unbuckled his belt, setting his sword against the wall before settling down on the bench.

While the man fumbled with the fastenings of his damaged boot, Idrin went to the large kettle heating near one wall and ladled water into a bowl, taking it, along with a tinted bottle, to the cabinet-worktop where the orderly had prepared a tray with pads of soft cloth and bandages, a pair of snips and a slender knife. The healer added the bowl and bottle to the load and carried all to the oblong table by the high seat.

Drawing a stool to the bench, she sat and looked closely at the leg propped on the hard surface: dried blood stained the Rider's ankle-length breeches and fresh droplets had seeped through the fabric.

Idrin passed her fingers lightly over the rough material – it stuck firmly to the wound beneath. Taking a patch of cloth from the tray and dipping it into the water, she soaked the crusted area and then contemplated the gashed fabric that had come loose. "It will be easier if this is cut away," she said, looking up at the Rider. She found his gaze fixed on her, cool and appraising.

After a long moment the hazel eyes turned away and the man moved to study his breeches, not noticing the healer's jutting chin and flaring nostril. He fingered the slashed fabric: the crooked blade had left a mess of stray threads in its wake. He nodded to himself and looked at Idrin. "They  _ are _ torn beyond repair."

The low, measured voice drove the memory of the bold appraisal from her thought, and the young woman blinked. Taking the snips, she cut the fabric around the wound and about the knee, pulling the loose pieces away carefully: the gash was deep, almost extending the length of his calf. She slid the edge of the knife carefully over the skin and then dipped a pad of cotton-cloth into the warm water, cleaning it thoroughly.

A faint shuffling noise broke the silence, and the Rider standing idly by the bench spoke, in rough and halting Westron: "Is there anything I can do to help, Mistress Healer?"

Idrin looked up at him. "Not at the moment," she replied. "You may wait outside while I stitch the wound, if you wish, but the healers treating those severely wounded would welcome aid. Glaewen will show you."

The orderly stepped forward and waited by the door, and the man nodded, glancing at his companion. They exchanged a few words in their native tongue and then the Rider followed the woman outside, the door closing softly behind them.

Idrin rose and went to the shelves, opening two jars and adding a careful measure of the contents of each into a cup. She let the mixture steep in boiling water and then took the cooling vessel along with a phial and jar to the bench.

"This will help lessen the pain and the swelling," she said, proffering the cup to the man.

The Rider drank deeply and then tensed, fighting a cough. He wiped his mouth. "Vile, bitter stuff."

The healer took the cup from him and placed it on the oblong table. "It's willow bark for the inflammation, with elderberry and hyssop to fight off infection," she said. Uncorking the phial she held, she soaked a clean cloth with its amber contents.

The Rider watched her closely.

Idrin caught the inquisitive gaze. "This will relax the muscles and lessen the pain," she explained, pressing the cotton-cloth to the shaven skin; "extracts of peppermint and the bird-pepper plant.¹ You will feel the pressure from the needle, but there should be little else."

The man made no comment, following her movements in silence as, after several moments, she dampened a soft pad with the colourless liquid from the tinted bottle and scrubbed the wound gently. The sharp smell of clear spirits pricked his nostrils, but he merely felt a slight sting where the soaked cloth passed over his skin. His gaze continued to trail the healer when she moved to wash her hands in the basin standing against the far wall and then make her way to the hip-high table.

He caught the gleam of polished steel as she picked up the contents of a raised metal board, arranging them carefully on the small tray beside it before returning to the bench with her load. Watching her sit and lift the ivory-hued cord from the small metal bowl, the Rider tensed when the clamp-like instrument holding the threaded needle hovered over his skin.² He glanced at the dark liquid of the phial on the small table and felt his body go rigid.

The pain he had anticipated was only a twinging sensation and the hand he held stiff against the bench relaxed. He let out a long breath and looked at the young woman bent on her work. The swift, fluid movements nearly lulled him, and it was after some time that he realised that the healer's hands were empty. He peered down at the row of black stitches, evenly spaced and standing out against his skin.

In front of him, the healer had unsealed the shallow jar and began rubbing a cool salve into his leg, pressing a clean pad on the stitched wound and wrapping a long strip of bandaging linen around it, finally securing it in place with a small clasping pin.

"There." She looked up at him. "You were fortunate: the cloth and boot protected the wound from the worst of the dirt. However, the cut was deep and you will have to stay in the Houses for at least seven days, to rest your leg and allow it to heal properly. If all is well, the stitches might be removed then."

The Rider frowned. "Seven days of idleness are too many when the war is not yet over."

"Yet your injury was not an insignificant one," returned Idrin, and after a long moment the man averted his gaze.

As the young woman got up, going to the smaller washbasin placed on the cabinet-worktop, the door opened and Glaewen appeared, followed by the Rider's companion. While the two men conversed in low voices, Idrin went to the large closet and returned holding a pair of crutches. She proffered them to the injured Rider. "Glaewen will show you to your room," she said.

The man's lips pressed into a thin line as he peered at the crutches, his eyebrows knitting for a brief moment. He rose carefully and attempted a step forward, moving away from his companion's outstretched arm. His leg buckled and he drew in a hissing breath. Managing to steady himself, the Rider stood still for an instant, the crease above the bridge of his nose smoothing before he finally took the crutches from the healer. "Thank you, Mistress." The words were a terse sigh.

Idrin's mouth twitched into a dim smile. "Take care not to let water soak it," she said, motioning at the stitched leg.

"I will." The Rider glanced at her and then turned to the door, following the orderly and his companion, who had gathered the discarded boot and sword-belt, outside the room.

Behind them, Idrin moved to clear the small oblong table and made her way to the short cabinets.

* * *

¹ Elderberry and hyssop exhibit antimicrobial, antioxidant and immune-boosting action (Sara Kunha et al, _Sambucus nigra – a promising natural source for human health_ ; Fatemeh Fathiazad & Sanaz Hamedeyazdan, _A review on Hyssopus officinalis_ ).  
Peppermint contains menthol, which has topical anaesthetic effects (N. Galeotti et al, _Local anaesthetic activity of (+)- and (-)-menthol).  
Bird-pepper, or cayenne pepper, contains capsaicin_ , topical formulations of which defunctionalise nociceptive nerve fibres. Cayenne peppers can be found in temperate climates, and thus in Gondor (P. Anand & K. Bley, _Topical capsaicin for pain management_ ; TG Tutin et al., _Flora Europaea_ ; Karen Wynn Fonstad, _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ ).

² Given the Gondorians' skill in healing ('[T]he leechcraft of Gondor was . . . skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and all such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to.' [ _The _ _ Lord _ _ of the  _ _ Rings_, Book 5, Chapter VIII]), it can be assumed that they also developed the instruments to facilitate their work, similar to the ancient Greeks and Romans devising ophthalmic probes, tongue depressors, forceps with finely-toothed jaws, ointment spatulas, or pivoting surgical instruments, to name a few (John Stewart Milne,  _ Surgical Instruments in Greek and Roman Times_).


	7. Chapter 6

** Chapter 6 **

A drizzling rain came from the West as the night deepened. Ringing with the clash of arms no more, the scarred field of the Pelennor breathed again, and beyond it the waters of the Anduin began to clear of red foam. In the Guarded City lights sprang forth in every circle, twinkling like a host of yellow stars. Up in the sixth level, the Houses of Healing had grown quiet, no longer filled with the cries of the wounded rushed in from battle.

With no more soldiers requiring immediate care, Idrin now left the ward to which she had been appointed, making towards the southern part of the Houses. A door swung open somewhere to her left and the Halfling Peregrin emerged into the corridor. Just before the door shut behind him, the healer made out a small figure lying on the bed and a mop of brown curls splayed on the pillow.

It was Pippin's kinsman, she knew. Long hours ago, in a moment of respite, she remembered catching a glimpse of the wizard Mithrandir carrying him past the treatment room in which she had been working, and recalled noting his closed eyes and the grey tint to his face.

"How is your friend?"

Her voice made Pippin look up at her. He sighed.

"The same," came his reply. "He has neither stirred nor opened his eyes. His skin is deathly cold and his right arm even more so. At first he spoke much in his dreaming, murmuring many things. Gandalf – Mithrandir, that is – said that he had dealt a great blow to the Witch-king on the battlefield, and that the Lady Éowyn finished him. Good old Merry!" His voice faltered and he fell silent, averting his gaze.

Idrin said nothing for a long while. Being unable to aid a hurt loved one was a harrowing thing, yet there was precious little that could be done against this Black Shadow. She drew in a breath.  "We can only have patience and wait now, Pippin."

The Hobbit nodded mutely. "Yes," he whispered. Then, a second later he set his shoulders. "I should go and find Beregond of the Guards," he said. "Farewell for now."

As their ways parted, the healer's face grew more thoughtful. There were many who now lay stricken with this strange malady, she knew, all fading slowly. While she had not seen the White Lady of Rohan, she had heard the soft speech of the orderlies, speaking in wonder and pity of the fair maiden who sought battle clad in mail as one of the Rohirrim.

Men might be those who bore arms at need, truly, yet in dire straits women fought no less valiantly. Still, Idrin could not fathom why one would choose to meet her doom in a foreign land when her own home had to be defended.

Her thoughts dispersed as she entered the chamber Faramir was laid in. A large window-pane was ajar, and the scent of night-flowers wafted in. The light rainfall had ceased, yet the mild air seemed to bring no comfort to the man: Faramir was still as she had last seen him, not responding to the world around him.

The young woman sat by him, closing her eyes for a fleeting instant as she sank into the soft chair-cushion. Reaching out, she felt Faramir's brow, and the burning heat that seared her hand surprised her. She gathered the bowl of water from the night-stand, hoping the cool cloth on his skin would ease him. He did not move.

A while later, the silence in the room was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps. Idrin looked about, recognising the wizard but not the second man who came in after him.

He was dark-haired, wrapped in a grey hooded cloak above his shirt of mail, and when he moved she saw a glimmer of green upon his breast. He looked like a battle-worn soldier, yet there was something noble about him, and she thought the bright jewel a very precious thing to be owned by a common man.

"Good evening, Mistress," the stranger greeted her and went to Faramir. He laid his hand upon his brow and gazed at him closely. Then he turned to the healer. "Has he spoken at all?"

A faint crease appeared above the bridge of Idrin's nose. "No," she replied.

Watching her, the wizard's eye twinkled at the glimmer of enquiry on her face. "Aragorn is a skilled healer," he said.

The young woman returned no comment, studying the man bent over her cousin. She wondered, for his was a kingly name, the likes of which she had only ever come upon in books recording the histories of centuries long past.

The man in question passed his hand over Faramir's brow and then straightened, and his face was troubled as he and Gandalf left the chamber.

Idrin stayed at her cousin's bedside, watching him. It was a pinching feeling some moments later that reminded her of the need to visit the kitchen, and she rose reluctantly from her seat. With a lingering glance at Faramir, she went from the room, making her way to the westernmost building of the Houses.

Despite the hour, there was a flurry of activity in the kitchen: the fires were burning, and cooks and maids went about or bent over tables, preparing light meals for those in the care of the healers. Amidst the bustle, Idrin found a quiet corner and ate a little, eager to return to Faramir's chamber.

Going back to the southern wing of the Houses of Healing, she saw the tall Guard who had helped carry Faramir there standing by the door to her cousin's room, peering inside. The healer felt her heart leap and hurried forward.

The chamber was crowded: Aragorn was bent over Faramir, and Gandalf and Imrahil of Dol Amroth were beside him, while Ioreth and the orderly who tended to her cousin stood nearer the door with Pippin and young Bergil. A bowl was in Aragorn's hands, and as he straightened, Idrin caught a familiar scent in the air, reminding her of the early-spring stock-flowers of her father's house in Lossarnach.

Faramir's eyes opened, and just as warmth swelled in her chest, she felt the Guard beside her draw in a sharp breath.

"The hands of the king..." he murmured softly, and the healer turned to look at him. She recalled that piece of lore and remembered the old rhyme about  _ athelas_, and a long-ago memory awoke:

_ Will a king ever return to Gondor? _

_ He may return still, one day. _

The young woman peered into the chamber again, and as she gazed at Aragorn, it seemed to her that many years had fallen from his shoulders, and he looked young and powerful as the kings of Númenor of old. She glanced at Faramir and smiled. "Word must be sent to the Steward that his son has awoken."

Just as she spoke, Imrahil stepped out of the room after Aragorn and Gandalf. He caught her eye and his face dimmed. He drew her aside gently and Idrin's cheer faded at his clouded look. "The Steward Denethor has passed," said the Prince quietly. Deep silence met his words; the young woman stared at him. "Madness took him," he continued, "for he thought Faramir dead and the City fallen. He tried to burn them both in the Hallows but Mithrandir stopped him, yet, in his fey mood, the Lord of Gondor set fire to his own flesh."

Still silent, Idrin did not withdraw her gaze from the face of the Lord of Dol Amroth. Then, after a long moment, she closed her eyes and bowed her head, letting out a shuddering breath. The Steward of Gondor had been proud, headstrong, a man with a sharp mind, and she had never known his wit to fail. To have yielded to grief and despair in such a way seemed incomprehensible.

Slowly, unbidden, shapes began to take form in the darkness behind her eyelids and a fond memory came back to her, half-faded by the long years.

Like now, it had been spring, the one after her mother's passing and a turning point in her young life, for then Minas Tirith became her second home. Her aunt had sent for her, writing in a letter to her father that a girl of her tender age needed a motherly presence by her, to teach her those things a mother would. Her father was grateful to assent to the offer of his sister-by-marriage, for he had no female relatives to take up the role of mother to his young daughter. When told of the proposal, Idrin's agreement to it was swift: she loved her aunt dearly and the Guarded City was a fascinating place. She went with a promise from her brothers that they would visit as often as they could.

Elthian's elder sister met father and daughter in the Citadel. Clad in the dark garb of mourning she had refused to cast after the loss of both husband and son in battle, Ivreth walked towards them with a kind smile. Idrin rushed into her arms and the woman sank down to envelop her in a warm embrace.

Behind her, the Steward of Gondor had crossed the Court of the Fountain and now looked at his late sister's husband. "Captain Arastor."

The low voice made the little girl look up from the security of her aunt's hold, and Ivreth rose to her feet.

"Lord Denethor." Arastor inclined his head to his brother-by-marriage.

The Steward turned to his niece, studying her silently. "She does become more like her as she grows," he said at last. The ghost of a smile had brushed the firm edges of his mouth, and Idrin had returned the grin meekly.

Presently, the young woman opened her blurred eyes and drew herself up, and Imrahil's gaze was soft as he looked at her.

"Go to Faramir. He shall be glad of your company," he said, taking his leave.

As Idrin entered her cousin's chamber, he turned from young Bergil and his father and there was a spark in his eyes.

The healer reclaimed her previous seat by his bed. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Weary but much lighter in thought and heart," replied Faramir.

Idrin then turned to the lad who stood nearby. "Bergil, could you go to the kitchen and bring some food for the Lord Faramir?"

The boy's face was still lit by a smile. "Yes, Mistress Idrin," came the eager reply, and he darted outside.

Faramir watched him disappear from sight and then cast a quick glance about the room. "I dreamt of darkness and fire," he said quietly, "and though all now looks well, I cannot be rid of the feeling that something terrible has happened within the City."

Idrin felt her stomach clench, yet she shook her head. "The battle has been won, but now is not the time for such talk," she said. "You need to regain your strength; questions can be postponed until tomorrow."

Bergil came in at that moment, laden with a tray of light food and drink, and the healer rose from her chair. "Eat and do not trouble yourself with dark thoughts tonight."

Faramir sat up straighter and looked at the tall Guard standing by the door, poised to go and yet hesitating. "Go to your rest, Beregond," he said. "The night is growing old."

Beregond bowed and passed silently from the room, and Bergil followed him.

Pausing at the threshold behind them, Idrin wished Faramir good rest and left him to his meal. Further down the corridor, an angry voice came from behind a shut door she passed by, spitting out a harsh word in an unfamiliar language, and the healer stopped in her tracks. She took a step back and knocked on the door, receiving a grunt-muffled response.

The chamber she entered was furnished with three beds, high-backed chairs, a small table and a chest of drawers. A changing-screen was near one wall and under a water-tap behind it stood a bathtub.¹

Sitting on one of the beds, the hazel-eyed Rider she had treated earlier glanced up. A sheet was wrapped around his waist and falling to his feet, and his wet hair brushed his bare shoulders in a dark-golden cascade. The dressing previously wrapped about his calf was lying at his feet and he used one edge of the sheet to dab at the stitches on his leg.

Idrin turned a quick look on the bathtub: it was filled with water and beside it a puddle glistened on the floor. She hurried forward, going to a small cupboard and collecting pads of cotton-cloth and a shallow tin and then knelt by the Rider. "Let me." She drew a chair in front of him and placed the items she carried near the stack of fresh clothes folded neatly on one corner of the bed.

The man watched her. "I tried to keep it dry," he offered. Despite the misfortune, the discarded dressing was more damp than sodden, and the stitches appeared to still be fast in place. As the healer set his right foot on the thin chair-cushion, the Rider stiffened and fumbled with the sheet covering him.

Idrin pressed a patch of loosely woven cloth gently along the line of black stitching. "You were in luck," she said, spreading salve on the now-dry skin and binding soft pads to it.

"That I was," the Rider agreed as he lowered his leg to the floor. "I was not so fortunate the last time a stitched wound got wet."

Storing away cloth and tin, the young woman glanced at him. "What happened then?"

"I was but a lad of ten and got injured during play," he said. "It was a deep cut: the healer in Aldburg had to stitch it. I did not heed his advice about not straining myself for a few days and went riding with my cousin. I fell into the stream we had halted by and the wound was soaked. It seemed to me that it took forever to heal." Absent-mindedly, one finger traced a pale white line above his hip, and when he lifted his gaze, the Rider saw the healer studying the mark intently. When their eyes met, she blinked and looked towards the bathtub and spill on the floor.

"I shall send someone to clear the bath-water. Is there anything you need?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

Idrin moved away from the wall. "Then I bid you good-night." The healer made towards the door but the Rider's voice stopped her.

"Your name, Mistress?"

Pausing, the young woman looked over her shoulder. "Idrin."

"I am Éothain." He watched her until she passed from sight.

Making her way to the garden outside, the healer was glad for the cool breeze that fanned her face. The scent of damp earth was a welcome change from the harsh and metallic smells in the Houses, and she breathed deeply. A gleam of white far above caught her eye and she saw the standard of the Stewards flowing in the gentle wind, and Beregond's words returned to her mind.

_ The hands of the King_.

Picking up her skirts, she hurried to the seventh level, slowing her step when she reached the Citadel library. The man in black and silver standing before the door bowed his head as she approached and stepped aside to let her enter.

Built on one level, the building was small, vaulted by a high-ceilinged dome. The heavy bookcases stood against and aligned with the walls, arranged behind an open space that held two long tables and chairs.

Idrin lit the lamp on the empty librarian's desk and carried it with her to the middle aisle. Carefully, she scanned the title of each book, pausing now and then to consider one or another. Finally, she drew out a dark-green tome and took it to a table.

She sat and turned the pages slowly, glancing at names and family trees spanning the generations from the Lords of Andúnië who were her father's kin to the Kings of Arnor. Trailing a finger down the lines of elegant script, the young woman paused and looked closely at the text relating to the last Kings of Arthedain. Their names reflected their high station, her tutor long ago had said, and as tradition would have it, no men but their direct descendants could claim names as lofty. Her brother's words of the previous day came back to her. Having seen Faramir awaken and witnessed the truth of old rhymes, Idrin now understood that the line of Isildur had not ended but endured, forgotten, in lands beyond the Misty Mountains.

She closed the book and returned it to its place, and suddenly the silent half-light about her was stifling.

Going from the library and reaching the warmth of the Healers' wing, the young woman felt her limbs grow heavy. A voice called her name, and she turned to see Arvinion and Damhir stride towards her. She reached for their hands quietly.

After a while Arvinion studied his sister, taking in the lines of tiredness on her face and the stains on her kirtle. He caught her eye. "Will you be staying with us tonight?"

Idrin shook her head. "There are many injured men in the Houses who may take a turn for the worse. I would not like to be away should anything arise in the night."

Her brother's gaze softened. "Faramir at the least looks well – the Prince Imrahil told us what happened in the Hallows."

The healer was silent for a spell. "Yes, Faramir's awaking is the one good thing to come out of this wretched day," she said at last.

Beside Arvinion, Damhir rubbed his shoulder. "Wretched, indeed. Let us hope that we may have a measure of peace after it." He blinked. "But now, I think, we should all turn to our beds."

Idrin nodded, feeling a haze blanket her senses.

Her brothers shifted their stance. "Rest well, sister."

Wishing her good-night, Arvinion and Damhir took their leave, and the young woman made for her own chamber.

* * *

¹ The more technologically skilled races in Middle-earth could have created water taps to facilitate indoor plumbing in establishments needing constant water supply, much like the ancient Romans devising taps 'operated by means of a rotary plug . . . turned [by means of a handle]' to control the water flow (Roberta J. Magnusson,  _ Water Technology in the Middle Ages_).


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

A cool wind blew from the west, sighing among the short plant-life scattered on the narrow shoulder of Mindolluin that joined into the City of the Kings. Standing on the rearward wall of the sixth circle, Idrin looked beyond the winding road that went from Fen Hollen, watching the white-domed mansions blush with the colours of early day. At the other end of the descending path, the Steward's Door was shut, yet between the empty halls there was much movement.

The Prince Imrahil had given orders that the rubble from the House of the Stewards be cleared, and men now went about the task briskly. Gazing at the silent houses of the dead from afar, Idrin noted with sudden awareness that the keen emotions stirred by the news of her uncle's passing had become less sharp. As the golden sunlight fell upon pale little flowers growing in clusters about the Hallows, her thought went to her late mother, long buried in her beloved Lossarnach as she had desired.

The young woman wished she had more memories of her. She could bring to mind the semblance of Elthian's gentle voice and her grey eyes and her dark hair, yet much had faded over the years. Among her most vivid recollections were those of the time she had spent with her at the Houses of Healing before the crippling illness finally overcame her.

She had almost always been at her mother's side then. She would sit at her feet and read to her, or regale her with tales she had heard, or tell her of some intriguing piece of history she had learnt during her lessons earlier that day. Her mother would listen, smiling at her. They would speak of the day outside and the going-ons in the City, and Idrin would tell her of any news she happened to hear. At times a light cough would break her mother's peace, stifled behind a linen handkerchief. More and more often as days passed, her body would stiffen and, in a voice that belied her clouded features, Elthian would bid her daughter go and play or seek the healers, whose knowledge, she knew, enchanted her. Then, as Idrin closed the door behind her, she would hear her mother cough in earnest – a shattering sound that made her heart plummet.

It had been her aunt who always lifted her gloom at those times, with a few well-chosen words and a gentle touch. Ivreth had ever been a steadfast support during Elthian's illness, and afterwards, when Idrin returned to Minas Tirith, the woman became the mother she lacked. The healer recalled her patience as Ivreth read her lessons with her, and the softness in her eyes as she praised her needlework, and the authority in her voice as they walked about the Citadel, her aunt instructing her in the duties that the mistress of a household was charged with.

Like her sister, Ivreth had requested that upon her death she be laid to rest in the land she had lived as a married woman. Two months had passed since her wish was honoured, and the Steward Ecthelion's elder daughter now lay in fair Lebennin where her husband had been Lord.

Idrin blinked and a shadow flitted over her face as she caught a glimpse of blackened stone in the distance. She looked on the House of the Stewards for a moment longer and then her eyes found the bleak field of the Pelennor below, dotted with many tents and horse-paddocks. She lifted her gaze and came down from the wall, passing the porter's house where Beregond sat in silence.

A quiet hum was in the air as the young woman made her way to the southernmost wing of the Houses of Healing. She stopped before a closed door and knocked. The three men playing at cards within the chamber greeted her jovially, and their mood made Idrin smile.

"How is your cheek, Anborn?"

The tallest of the men turned towards her, displaying a line of delicate stitching running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. "It feels better, Mistress, no longer smarting."

Idrin drew a chair beside him and sat, studying the stitched gash bordered by reddened skin.

So much of the morning passed, and it was nearly two hours before noon that the healer entered the last room assigned to the soldiers under her care.

Éothain was leaning lightly on one crutch by the chest of drawers, brow furrowed, lips pressed tightly together and fingers drumming against the dark wood. The brisk sound was stilled when the Gondorian passed the threshold, and the Rider drew himself up as best he could. "The women say I am to stay confined to this House," he said in a clipped voice, his eyes boring into her.

He saw the healer take quick note of the second crutch propped against the furniture before looking up at him.

"If your leg is to heal without complication, you should not strain it by walking far," she said. "Anything more than ten minutes at most will hinder the mending process." 

Éothain let out a breath. "I need to find my men: they were to report to me but none have yet come."

"That can be easily remedied," returned the young woman. "One of the boys running errands in this house can fetch whomever you seek." She glanced down. "I trust your leg does not bother you."

"It is no more than a pinch every now and then," said the Rider.

The healer listened approvingly. "The dressing will be changed tonight. In the meantime I shall send for an errand-boy, and the orderly to take the breakfast tray."

Éothain contemplated his leg in silence and nodded to himself. As she left the room, he sat slowly down on his bed and turned to the window, gazing at the sunlit garden outside.

Within, Idrin walked swiftly towards the other end of the building. She found the Lord Húron settled by the open window in his chamber, poring over a sheet of parchment. Catching sight of her, he moved to lower the lone page beside him but his grip failed and the open roll fell from his suddenly unbending fingers.

The healer glanced at the man's hands and looked up to meet his gaze.

"It has grown worse again," said Húron. "The stiffness in my legs has returned also – I awoke this morning and for a few moments I could not move. It seems we turn back to skullcap and red clover, do we not?"

The man's light disposition brought the hint of a glimmer to Idrin's eyes. "Yes, quite," she returned.

Húron looked through the window, a wistful expression on his face. "Such a bright day. I should like to go outside a while." His clear gaze found the healer and he recognised her pondering silence. "My legs can handle a short walk," he assured her.

"Very well," said the young woman slowly, retrieving his walking stick as he carefully rolled the piece of parchment he had been reading.

Step by step they made their way to the northward part of the garden and sat beneath a young tree. The retired captain looked about him and breathed deeply.

"Húron!"

Both turned at the sound of the voice and Idrin saw Éothain standing a few paces away from them, staring at the sitting man in delighted surprise.

Beside her Húron squinted and gradually a slow smile came over his features. "Éothain. It has been far too long."

"It has," said the Rider. He regarded the man fondly and then a faint wrinkle creased his brow. "Most of Mundburg have gone to refuge in the south vales of Gondor and I recall you had some family thither. How is it you are not with them now?"

The retired captain allowed himself a humourless grin. "My relationship with my son's family has not been what it used to since he died," he returned. "Even if I did leave Minas Tirith, I would simply be waiting for battle and death somewhere else." He paused for breath and gestured for Éothain to come and sit by him.

As the Rider settled on the bench, Húron turned to the young woman but a sudden flash of white caught his eye and he closed his mouth. He looked towards the wrought-iron gate set in the thick hedge surrounding the Houses of Healing. Éothain and Idrin trailed his line of sight.

In the main street beyond, two men in the armour of the Citadel came from the west carrying a covered bier. Met by Gandalf, their faces were grim and they handled their load with much care as the wizard spoke to them in a quiet voice. Giving a brief reply to his words, the guards continued their way to the seventh circle and, after a grave glance towards the Houses, the old wizard went after them.

"What burden do they bear with such reverence?"

"The Steward Denethor," said Húron. Rumour of the previous day's commotion in the Hallows had long since spread through the City. "He has passed." The retired Gondorian captain turned to the Rider of Rohan, but the younger man's attention was no longer held by the solemn procession. Húron followed his gaze, looking to his left, and saw the healer beside him staring silently at the men disappearing into the tunnel that led to the Citadel.

"Your uncle was a respected man," he said.

Once more, the words made Idrin think how withdrawn and grim the Lord of Minas Tirith had become since the cloven Great Horn was brought to him, and how very tired he had looked. "His far sight troubled him greatly after Boromir's death."

Húron gave a short, knowing hum. "It must have been grave indeed to have such visions of the Enemy's growing power as the Steward Denethor did," he said. "Yet, luck smiled upon us yesterday."

"And there is still a long way to go ere we reach the end of the road and the victor is declared," said Éothain, letting out a slow breath.

Húron nodded. "True, but nothing is final until then."

The Rider of Rohan smiled. "I envy your high heart, Húron."

The retired captain waved his hand. "I simply understood long ago that no single thing is carved in stone. Hope is what keeps our footing steadfast," he returned, his gaze wandering to a patch of white _alfirin_ nearby that spilled over the edge of their flowerbed. He motioned to them with a light gesture. "It never truly fails, much like these flowers here that bloom in the south vales and yet thrive even on bare mountain-tops, their beauty unwithering even when they are cut."

"Similar to the _simbelmynë_ in the Mark," murmured Éothain absently.¹

"So many things we think will never come to pass, and yet yesterday the improbable occurred: the battle was won," Húron continued. "And the lost heir of Isildur shall claim the throne of Gondor, if he be not a figment of the imagination conjured in the wake of our victory," he added sceptically, looking up at the White Tower and the banner of Dol Amroth that flapped listlessly in the breathless breeze.

Silently listening to the two men talk, Idrin now sat straighter. "He is very much real," she said. "Had I not seen him lift the Black Shadow from Faramir, I too would have doubted him."

The retired Gondorian captain looked at her, quiet, but Éothain's lip twitched and a glimmer flickered in his eyes, one eyebrow quivering. **"** The Ranger from the North... King of Gondor. He has a bright sword, yea, and his bearing and speech are lofty, yet the line of Kings failed hundreds of years ago, 'tis said. Any man belonging to a branch of that forgotten kin could lay a high claim to the throne of Gondor."

Húron gazed at him. "Were you born a Gondorian, you would have learnt tales and legends that tell how the true King is known," he returned. "Doubtlessly there is a reason why this man's existence was kept a secret, and the truth of his birthright shall certainly be put to the test."

He glanced up at the quickly climbing sun and then back to his younger companions, the planes of his face softening. "I believe it is time for me to retire. I begin to feel an ache in my bones," he said and slowly got to his feet.

The healer rose with him, and Húron let her take his arm. He turned to Éothain. "We shall see each other again, lad."

Peering at the older man, the Rider of Rohan gave him a wordless, cursory nod in farewell and watched the pair walk away silently.

When they reached the southernmost wing of the Houses of Healing, the retired captain halted and looked softly at Idrin. "You need not wait on me, child, I can make my way to my room easily enough from here."

The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but Húron intercepted her: "It is no difficult task to walk a bit farther. Go."

With a brief purse of lips, the healer conceded and took her leave. Going back to the northward garden, she found Éothain staring unseeingly into the distance, his brow knitted. His eyes cleared as she stepped closer to the bench and then looked up, gazing at her thoughtfully.

"How long has Gondor been without a King?"

Idrin blinked. "More than nine hundred years," she replied.

In the brief pause that followed her words, Éothain shifted a little in his seat and motioned for her to settle down. "And?"

The young woman sat. "The last king, Eärnur, went to Mordor in the year 2050 in answer to the Dark Lord's challenge and never came back. He had no heir," she carried on. “After that the rule of the Stewards began. Had Pelendur not advised against accepting Arvedui's claim to the crown after Ondoher's fall —"

Idrin caught a queer glimmer in the man's eyes then and stayed her words, realising that those bits of history she considered elementary sounded like unconnected thoughts to the Rider of Rohan. She took a breath. "The Kings of Gondor came from the line of Elendil's second son, Anárion. King Ondoher was the last of that line; he and his sons were slain in battle," the young woman began again. "Arvedui, the last King of Arthedain and a direct descendant of Isildur, who had wedded Ondoher's daughter, made claim to the throne after their death, but by the Steward Pelendur's advice was rejected..."

Éothain nodded absently to himself, settling deeper into the bench as Idrin talked of the last Kings of Gondor. "What of those tales Húron mentioned?" he asked when she paused.

"It is recorded that the Kings of old were great healers," replied the young woman. "owing this power, perhaps, to their foremother Lúthien, daughter of Melian the Maia and Thingol the Elf-king." And the thread of old lore was taken up anew and their conversation carried on, until the noon bell called them to lunch.

* * *

¹ Evidence in JRR Tolkien's writings indicates that the alfirin and the simbelmynë are two different flowers, even though Christopher Tolkien equates them in his commentary in  _Unfinished Tales_.   
In one of his letters, the Professor writes that ' _Alfirin_ ("immortal") would be an immortelle, but not dry and papery: simply a beautiful bell-like flower, running through many colours . . .' ( _The Letters of JRR Tolkien_ , Letter #312).   
Contrasting this image of the everlasting, bell-like flower of many colours that is alfirin, he envisions the simbelmynë as 'an imagined variety of anemone, growing in turf like . . . the pasque-flower, but smaller and white like the wood anemone. Though the plant bloomed at all seasons, its flowers were not "immortelles"' (JRR Tolkien, _Guide to the Names in_ The Lord of the Rings).


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Parting from Éothain near the south lawn of the Houses of Healing, Idrin crossed the garden and made her way to the Healers' wing. Approaching the dining-hall, she saw that the wide chamber was beginning to fill. The Chief Healer, Neston, was standing just inside the doorway, surrounded by a small group of healers and orderlies. Those around him were quiet as he spoke, and the words that reached Idrin's ears made her pause:

"The Warden and I have met with the Lord Aragorn. Our army is to march to the Black Gate in two days' time, accompanied by a number of thirteen healers and twenty-six orderlies," he said.¹ "Those healers who wish to go with the host may come to my study after noon, and orderlies may seek out dame Ioreth. Those who remain shall be assigned additional tasks on the morrow."

Idrin listened as she walked into the hall, feeling a solid weight settle in her stomach. A venture into even the nearest reaches of Mordor was disquieting news. She turned her attention to the growing bustle in the chamber and, among the sea of dark-headed males, caught sight of long, almost red hair and a slender figure.

The russet-headed woman robed in blue and pearl-white came towards her. "I had expected we were to block the Great Gate and prepare for siege, not march to the Black Land," she said promptly.

"A foolhardy decision," murmured Idrin as the two of them made for the cook's counter.

"'Tis a bold move," returned the other and remained silent while they picked up their plates and cups. "I should like to go with the host," she finally went on as they sat at a long table.

Idrin glanced up at her and then dropped her eyes. "I haven't given the matter much consideration yet," she said softly.

The russet-haired healer peered at her companion, noting the thoughtful expression on her face and the gaze that did not quite meet her own. Idrin's eyes remained fixed on the table, and after a moment the red-headed woman turned her attention to her plate.

At the end of their meal, an errand-lad overtook them at the door and gave Idrin a folded piece of parchment.

The healer lingered in the corridor to read. "My brothers write they were given leave to visit their families before the host marches," she said as she put the letter in her kirtle-pocket. "They should be back before sundown tomorrow."

"They were lucky to have been afforded such kindness," returned the red-haired woman beside her, a faraway look glazing her eyes momentarily. "The town's being only a few hours ride away worked in their favour."

As the two healers went their separate ways, Idrin thought on the words left unspoken. Her brothers were most fortunate indeed: for many of those currently residing in Minas Tirith, it would be some time before they saw their loved ones again, if at all.

The young woman's feet carried her across the lawn, and she found Faramir standing at the open window in his chamber, looking at the blooming flowerbed outside that stretched almost to the wall.

He spun round at the sound of her footfalls and regarded her with bright eyes. Then his gaze sobered. "Uncle Imrahil visited earlier," he said in a quiet voice.

The young woman felt her heart sink. She had not expected the news of Denethor's death to be relayed to Faramir so soon.

"I had not thought Father would fall to despair thus," the man continued. "The visions he saw in the Stone finally overthrew his mind." He sighed.

Idrin marvelled at his calmness. Then, belatedly, she registered his words. "The stone?"

The faintest semblance of a grim smile brushed Faramir's lips. "Remember you the high room under the summit of the Tower?"

The young woman nodded. She could well recall the solitary door at the top of the long flight of stairs in the Tower of Ecthelion, always locked and mystifying. "I ventured up there just once, when I was nine. Uncle found me staring at the door. That was the only time he ever raised his voice at me," Idrin reminisced. She grinned. "I used to think he had some kind of treasure locked in that room."

Faramir hummed at the words. "I guess it could be called that."

The young woman glanced at him. "A stone," she repeated slowly. Then the frown creasing her brow smoothed. "The seeing-stone of Minas Anor?"

"Indeed," returned her cousin. "After the days of the Kings, the palantír's existence was a guarded secret known only to the Stewards, it seems. Boromir knew of it, for Father took him up the Tower many years ago. It was then that I first set out to discover what was kept in the secret room, but it was only today that my suspicions were fully confirmed."² He saw Idrin's face slowly grow thoughtful again.

The young woman was silent for some time, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet: "Using the palantír was why Uncle seemed so tired this past year."

Faramir gave a half-nod. "Wielding a seeing-stone requires great mental strength, I have gathered; it can be taxing to both mind and body."

"What will happen to it?"

"The Lord Aragorn will keep it," returned Faramir. He regarded his cousin for a moment. "Wilt thou go with the host?"

Idrin blinked at the sudden question and opened her mouth. No words came. Her eyes darted away from Faramir's clear gaze. "I..." Her voice trailed off.

The man took note of the slightly furrowed brow and twitching lip. "You do not wish to find yourself on a battlefield," he said softly.

The young woman let out a sighing breath, meeting his keen grey eyes for the first time. "No, I do not," she admitted. Then she drew herself up. "It's a reckless move, setting seven thousands against the vast armies of Mordor. Foolish."

Faramir looked at her long with a searching gaze, saw her flaring nostril. When her countenance softened, he spoke. "It is not victory by arms the Captains hope to achieve," he said. "Such hope would be futile. Nay, they only wish to draw the Dark Lord's attention away from those who may bring about his undoing."

Idrin gazed at him.

He went on: "Do you remember when you made a guess at the riddling dream Boromir and I had? Our doom lies indeed with the two Halflings we met in Ithilien. Isildur's Bane has awoken, that which was thought to have perished from this world and the one thing the Dark Lord desires above all; that for the unmaking of which the Fellowship of Nine set out in secret."

Slowly, the young woman's eyes widened, and Faramir watched her sink into a chair silently.

"Then... we wait," she said and absently smoothed her kirtle, peering at him. "How do you feel today?"

"Well enough," answered Faramir. "I rested easily last night, and this morning I was allowed a short stroll in the garden. Then Uncle Imrahil came." He paused. "And you, cousin? How has it been with you?"

"I have not been as hard-pressed as others," returned Idrin. "Those least wounded have been my charge, and many shall be fit to leave the Houses by tomorrow."

The two of them sat and talked together thus for some time, and Faramir was content to hear of the young woman's work and the doings in the City during the days that the grim sickness was upon him. When he grew tired, Idrin left him to rest. The men under her care would not need her attention until evening, and so she made towards the garden.

From afar the healer caught sight of the familiar form of Éothain standing beside a bench, leaning heavily on his crutches, his back to her. Letting out a huff, she turned her footsteps towards him and picked up her pace. As she advanced, she noted that he was talking to a flaxen-haired man, taller in stature but like him in bearing. Idrin came to stand a few paces away from them, waiting, fragments of their rich, sonorous speech reaching her ears.

After some moments the voices faded into silence, and looking over Éothain's shoulder as he stepped forward, the taller man spied the young woman nearby. He acknowledged her with a glance and strode past her towards the Houses.

When Idrin turned to Éothain, she saw he had moved to stare at the retreating figure, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked at her then, and his eyes were bright.

"There was an important council held and Éomer did not deem it important to inform the Captain of his  _éored_."³ The Rider's words were crisp, his gaze straying to where his companion had disappeared. "And now, he merely comes after all decisions have been made to tell me we are to march to the Land of Shadow in two days and that he does not expect me to fight while injured." He peered at the healer.

Idrin was watching him in silence. "Please, sit," she said, her eyes flicking to his bandaged leg.

Éothain sat on the bench readily and let out a heavy breath. "He said that his sister, Éowyn, rode with our host in disguise and now lies in this House after her encounter with the Chieftain of the Ringwraiths. Whatever possessed her to leave her charge in the Mark and follow Théoden —" The Rider checked himself and shook his head, looking up at the young woman again. "How came you to become a healer?"

Idrin took a seat beside him. "Ever since I was a child I have been drawn to those who strive to help others," she replied. "When I came to Minas Tirith with my mother, I was often in the Houses with her. I liked helping the healers: rolling bandages, fetching things they needed, running small errands; and in time they began teaching me about the healing herbs. Afterwards I became an apprentice and began studying in earnest."

Éothain thought for a moment. "You were not born here, then?"

The healer shook her head. "I was born in Forvarad, a town in Lossarnach by the Anduin.⁴ My father and mother were born in Minas Tirith, but after they were wedded they built their home there. Mother liked the river and the flowering meadows." A gentle smile touched her lips. "What of you? How came you to become a Rider of Rohan?"

"My forefathers were Riders," returned Éothain. "I learnt how to ride even as I learnt to walk and was taught how to wield sword and spear when still a lad. It was during one of those early lessons that I first met Húron – my father and he had been acquainted years earlier when Húron travelled to the Mark on military matters, and thereafter he visited whenever such affairs took him thither."

"Forgive the intrusion, lady," a voice nearby cut into the conversation, "but do we march to war? There seemed to be much excitement among the younger orderlies just now."

Idrin turned to see the Halfling Peregrin and his kinsman and regarded them for a moment. "Yes, Master Pippin, we march to war," she replied. "There will be healers and orderlies accompanying the host, hence the bustle."

"Surely there are not enough men to secure victory?" the second Hobbit was quick to observe.

"There are not, Master Holbytla," returned the Rider of Rohan, "but we can challenge battle still!"

The dark-haired Halfling looked at him.

"I understand you are Peregrin's kinsman, Master Hobbit," the healer turned the matter aside then.

"I am," he answered, shifting his attention to her. "Meriadoc Brandybuck is my name, Merry for short." He moved to sit at the bench opposite the young woman and the Rider, looking up at the roof of green maple leaves above him as the foliage rustled in a breath of cool wind. He hummed softly to himself and let his gaze wander about the greensward. "The city would look so more cheerful if there were more gardens like this one in it."

"It would," Éothain agreed with the quiet musing. "And the trees here are in need of some pruning."

The Halflings peered at the man studying the greenery that surrounded them.

He caught their enquiring gazes on him and continued: "I am not much of a gardener, but I know how to tend trees at the least. My father has always loved the earth."

"As has mine," said Pippin, "though the gardening he leaves to my mother." A fleeting grin passed over his face.

Beside him, Merry chuckled fondly, raising a hand to his right arm. "Aunt Eglantine can be formidable with a pair of pruning shears." Absently he kneaded the muscles under the sleeve-fabric.

"Your arm still pains you?"

The curly-headed Halfling looked up at the Rider. "It's just a twinge," he replied. "That cool draught earlier must have affected it."

Across from him Idrin glanced at the arm in question and then up at the sky. The afternoon sunlight was no longer blazing bright. "It's growing late," she said. "I must return to the wards – there is still work to do before supper-time." She rose, and by her, Éothain wordlessly reached for his crutches and hoisted himself upright.

"Good-night, then," said Merry. "I will stay here a while longer. I am not tired yet, and the air is still warm enough."

Pippin gave a half-nod to himself. "In that case, I will bring some food from the kitchen," he said. "Camping in such a lovely garden is not a bad idea," he finished with a tiny smile.

The healer and the Rider took their leave and the two Halflings settled onto the bench, turning their eyes towards the rose and orange haze in the West.

* * *

¹ '. . . [the number of soldiers setting out for Mordor] told six thousand foot and a thousand horse.' ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the_ _R_ _ing_ _s_ , Book 5, Chapter IX)  
My assigning a total of thirty-nine healers and orderlies to accompany a host of seven thousands is prompted by a passage regarding the medical personnel allotted to the British army at the battle of Waterloo: 'In theory, each battalion of six hundred men was authorized only one surgeon and two assistants' (Richard A. Gabriel,  _Between Flesh and Steel_ ).

² '[T]the Anor-stone had become a secret . . . after the fall of Minas Ithil . . . [T]he traditions regarding [the palantíri] and their use [were preserved] in the special archives of the Stewards, available beside the Ruling Steward only to his heir.' ( _Unfinished Tales_ , Part 4, Chapter III)  
Despite the fact that, during Denethor's rule, only Boromir would have officially been privy to the existence of the Anor-stone, it seems plausible that Faramir, having inherited his father's shrewdness and thirst for knowledge, would have at some point begun to suspect that the seeing-stone of Minas Anor was in the secret keeping of the Steward.

³ In the last draft of  _The Lord of the Rings_ to feature him, Éothain was the 'captain of Éomer's company (éored)' ( _The History of Middle-earth: The War of the Ring_ , Part One, Chapter VII). Although the rank is not mentioned in the published text, it is most certain that it was retained: Éothain's being the only person who dared speak his mind, twice, when first meeting the Three Hunters in _The Two Towers_ , something that largely goes unmarked by Éomer, is fair indication of an elevated station, as one of lesser rank would not be likely to display such open forwardness.

⁴ Forvarad is my creation, one of the unnamed settlements dotting the landscape of Middle-earth.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The next day dawned bright. The Houses of Healing were in a flurry of activity: orderlies and healers went to and fro, and soldiers declared fit made ready to depart with the companies marching to Mordor.

“The guesthouse on the fourth level is nearest,” said Idrin as she arranged small jars and pads of cloth on a tray. “It is close to the gate that leads to the fifth circle of the City.”

The golden-haired young man sitting on the bed behind her rose and reached for the pack and scabbard lying against a wall. He straightened and readjusted the linen sling his left arm was in, rubbing gingerly at his shoulder.

Fumbling with a leather pouch attached to her belt, the healer unfastened it and presented it to the Rider. “Do not worry your arm, and apply the salve twice a day.” The man took the small bag from her, and she went on: “I shall see you again in five days; the swelling will have gone down by then. In the meantime, if the pain becomes more than a twinge, or if the area grows hot, come to the Houses.”

The young man nodded. “Thank you, Mistress.” He bent to store the pouch in his pack, and Idrin picked up the tray and made for the door.

* * *

It was a couple of hours before noon when she entered Faramir's chamber.

Perched in the window-recess, the man looked up from the sheaf of papers he had been studying. “You came early, cousin,” he said.

“I had not much to do,” replied Idrin: “many have been released from my care, and those who still remain are in no need of special attention.”

Faramir left his seat and set the documents he had been holding on the bed. “Will you walk with me, then?”

“Yes.” Idrin nodded readily and followed him outside.

As they stepped into the garden, the young woman paused when her fingers tightened against a forgotten weight in her hand. “I have something for you,” she said, lifting her arm. “I thought it might help rest your mind when you take up your authority as Steward.”

Faramir took the leather-bound book from her and peered at the cover. The hint of a grin touched his features. “Thank you,” he returned, taking a moment to leaf through the first pages before clutching the tome to him.

They strolled along the hedge that ran about the domain of the healers in silence for some time. Then the Lord Denethor's secondborn sighed. “The fallen will have to be named and buried; we shall have to provide for those who will remain in the City. I will have to speak with the Lord Éomer about King Théoden's body – as it will be some time before he can be buried with proper honour, the services of the embalmers shall have to be enlisted.” He looked up at the smattering of white clouds dotting the sky. “And then, there's the matter of my father's remains,” he said. “Alas that the fire made it so that there shall be no tomb to hold an embalmed body. Yet, he once said he wished to be laid to rest beside my mother – perhaps when all is peaceful again we may journey to Dol Amroth and honour that.”

Beside him, the young woman hummed quietly. “Yes, when all is set in order.”

Faramir held her gaze for a brief instant and then turned to look towards the dark clouds beyond Ithilien. “Mother feared the darkness in the East,” he said. “It had been a whispering shadow and a threat in her mind, ever growing as the years passed. It was for love of my father and us that she endured living in Minas Tirith.”

Idrin remained silent. As a child she had heard tale of how Finduilas had slowly withered in the Guarded City, and more than once she had wondered why the Shadow had affected her so.

A Gondorian soldier approached them then and addressed Faramir: “The Lord Éomer wishes to see you, lord.”

Faramir bade him conduct the new king of Rohan to his chamber and, when the man bowed and departed, turned to Idrin. “Perhaps we can resume our walk later.”

“Arvinion and Damhir are returning from Forvarad this evening, and the townhouse is in need of tidying,” answered the young woman; “but I shall try to come if all is done before the sunset-bell.”

Faramir inclined his head and turned to follow the soldier who had disappeared in the distance.

When he left, Idrin stood for a while and then walked to the wall, climbing the steps to the top. She rested her hands lightly on the parapet and looked down. Flanking the broken Great Gate were the many tents of the Rohirrim and the Dúnedain, the sole source of colour upon the barren plains. In the west and south, near the root of Mindolluin where the Hill of Guard joined the mountain, she could discern a press of men, busy as ants.  

The young woman watched as the wide tract of land they worked in was being meticulously cleared of debris. There would be mounds raised there soon, Idrin knew, housing the fallen defenders of Minas Tirith, after their bodies were washed of the grime of battle. She wondered how long it would take before the fields grew green again.

The sound of heavy footfalls punctured her solitude, and a tall figure came to stand beside her. Idrin turned to see Éothain gazing over the plains. Her eyes moved to the leg only gingerly touching the stones beneath it and then beyond to the steps leading up to the wall-walk. She let out a breath and averted her gaze.

“Is it the first time you look over the walls after the siege?” asked Éothain.

Near the root of the mountain, the site of the future mounds was slowly becoming smoother and less dark than the burnt earth surrounding it as the top layer of soil was removed and the earth turned.

“No, but it is the first time I look so long,” replied Idrin. “I have never seen such scorched land before. Set against this, the injuries of Men seem almost a trifling matter.”

Beyond the confines of the City and the newly erected tents nearby, in the desolate plains, were burnt homesteads and charred trees and blackened earth.

Éothain looked away and gave the young woman a fleeting glance. “It is a sad sight.” There was a pause, and then he spoke again in a quiet, slow voice: “Have you lost anyone in the battle?”

The healer turned to regard him. “No, I was fortunate,” she said. “My brothers fought and survived.”

“As was I,” returned Éothain. “Both my cousins are hale, though the arm of Éowyn is broken.¹ I should go and see how she fares.”

The young woman was peering at him in silence, her gaze steady, and when he shifted, she blinked.

“Come, let us go sit,” she said. “You should rest your leg.”

They came down from the wall and settled on a bench as the day before.

"Tell me of Rohan," Idrin requested.

Éothain's countenance grew lighter. "The Riddermark is a country ever swept by winds,” he began. “The summers are warm and the winters can be harsh; but in springtime there is much rain and the plains turn green. The Entwash divides the land into the Westemnet and the Eastemnet, and in times of peace there are large herds of horses roaming the open grasslands there, cared for by herdsmen who camp in tents year-round."²

There was a spark in the young woman's eyes as she listened. “I would like to visit it one day,” she said. “The farthest I have travelled to is Dol Amroth, by the sea, many years ago.”

“I would like to see more of this city,” returned Éothain. “Stone is not so much used in the Mark. Wood-workers and cob-builders are more common among us.” He glanced up at the sun high in the sky. “The wood-carvers would have much to do this time of year,” he said, “fashioning yellowbells and bloodroots and bluebells from tree-bark to mark the end of winter.”³ And with that he began telling her about spring in the Riddermark.

* * *

The light had not yet failed when Idrin shut the door to the room behind her, leaving the man within basking in whatever warmth the descending sun had to offer. There was only one more soldier in need of her attention at present, and the healer made for his chamber.

Éothain was testing his injured leg as the young woman walked in, taking small steps without the support of crutches. He sat on the bed beside a weathered map laid flat upon it when he caught sight of the healer's pointed stare, and she went to the small cupboard near the bathtub without speaking.

The Rider was on his feet once more as soon as she had seen to his stitched wound. While she busied herself storing away the jar of ointment and roll of linen-cloth, Éothain was pacing back and forth across the room, making slight use of one crutch. He halted by the window and gazed outside at the garden bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, one forefinger tapping briskly against his leg and a faint crease furrowing his brow. After a few moments he turned about, and his mouth was set in a firm line.

"Mistress, I wish to join the companies."

Idrin looked up and met the unyielding gaze. There was a spell of silence.

"Your leg is mending," she said at last. "Putting undue pressure on it now will not help matters."

Éothain stared at her, his jaw suddenly clenching and his body stiffening. “Undue pressure? Mistress, a soldier cannot fight sitting.”

The young woman shook her head slowly, and the Rider spoke again, his words measured: "We will not go to the Land of Shadow on foot, and it will take us six days at the least to get there. My leg will have time to heal.”

"You would risk further injury to follow your King,” said Idrin quietly. She let out a deep breath. “If the muscle does not knit properly, some permanent damage may remain; and if the wound opens again, it will not be as easy to close.”

Éothain peered at her. “I have dealt with such injuries before; I can look after myself. And should something happen, there will be healers among us."

The young woman huffed and looked at him steadily, concealing her imperceptibly twitching fingers in a fold of her chemise. He held her gaze, and after a while she averted her eyes. "Very well," she said and turned to the cupboard again, rummaging through it for a few minutes. Approaching Éothain, she offered him a sturdy pouch. "Dressing material and salve," she explained when he raised an eyebrow in enquiry; "there's enough for two weeks. I will have a remedy for the pain sent in the morning."

The Rider of Rohan took the brown pouch from her and glanced at the shallow jar and bandages inside. "Thank you." He tightened the strings. "I should find Húron; bid him farewell," he said, softly as if speaking to himself.

“I can show you to his room,” said Idrin.

Éothain adjusted his grip on the single crutch he held and followed her. They found Húron sitting on the bed, his attention bent on flexing and extending his fingers.

Idrin watched the man's movements, noting the improved mobility and reduced stiffness, before he became aware of them.

“I do feel better than I did this morning,” he said, glancing down at his hand. “Exercise helps indeed.” He looked at the healer.

“That is good news,” she replied. “If all is well, you may return home tomorrow.” There was a pause and then she spoke again: "I should leave you; there is much to be done at the townhouse before Arvinion and Damhir come.” She turned to the Rider of Rohan, meeting his gaze briefly. "Fare you well, Éothain."

He peered at her. "Farewell, Mistress."

She offered a faint upturn of lips and swept from the room.

"You go to Mordor."

Húron's words drew Éothain's attention, and the Rider saw the man was gazing at his bandaged leg. He nodded at the statement. Feeling the Gondorian raise his eyes and open his mouth after a ponderous moment, he checked him: "How did you come to be at the Houses of Healing? When last we met in the Mark, you were as hale as can be."

A mirthless grin touched Húron's features. "Age and sickness spare no man," he replied.

* * *

¹ JRR Tolkien gives us no details on Éothain's background. His and Éomer's being cousins is of my own invention, an extrapolation from the little we know about him. The first fact to draw from is his name itself: _Éothain_ has the same element _eoh_ ( _horse_ in Old English) as _Éomer_ , _Éowyn_ , _Éomund_. Names among close family members of the Rohirrim tend to have a similar sound ( _Théoden, Théodwyn, Théodred_ ), so, deducing from that similarity, Éothain may very well be related to Éomund and his family.

The second fact to draw from is Éothain's brazenly voicing his thoughts to his Marshal when first coming across the Three Hunters: such bold speech may be indicative of the easy familiarity that exists among close family members.

² Rohan is a country that boasts grasslands: '[T]the land rose, swelling up towards a line of low humpbacked downs . . . the ground became harder and the grass shorter . . . The wind went like grey waves through the endless miles of grass . . . Often the grass was so high that it reached above the knees of the riders . . . The grass-lands rolled against the hills that clustered at [the feet of the White Mountains] . . . winding their way into the heart of the great mountains . . . [I]n the wet meads and along the grassy borders of the stream grew many willow-trees . . . [There were] willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into Entwash . . .' ( _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ , Book 3, Chapters II, V & VI; Book 5, Chapter III).

These descriptions indicate regions like to the temperate grasslands of North American prairies, as ‘[t]emperate grasslands consist of grasses and herbs that extend across vast plains with occasional low, rolling hills. Trees grow only beside rivers . . .’ and in the prairies ‘[s]horter grasses—less than 18 inches (45 cm) tall—grow . . . in the _plains_ . . . ’, with some tall grass species standing more than six feet tall (Michael Allaby, _Grasslands_ ).

³ This Rohirric tradition is my creation, inspired by the vernal equinox being considered the official first day of spring in many countries of the northern hemisphere.


	11. Chapter 10

** Chapter 10 **

The townhouse was dark when Idrin entered, the hearth cold and the windows shut, witness to the recent absence of the housekeeper who had gone to Lebennin. The young woman built the fire in the drawing room, tended the oil-lamps and went to the broom-cupboard.

Busying herself with tidying and cleaning, she saw that twilight had nearly turned to night by the time she walked into the last room to be put in order. Her father's study wasn't large, and the work was done quickly. Chores finished, the young woman went to the desk once again with a mind to finally place the open book there back on the shelf and clear away the stacked sheets of parchment.

She made to mark the page and found herself sitting in her father's old chair, her eyes gliding over the written word. She turned to the stray piece of parchment resting against the leather-bound tome, its light surface covered in her own clear handwriting, the words matching those on the page under it. Idrin let the bookmark fall to its place, dividing the tome into two unequal parts. There was some work to be done yet before her copy of the long account relating to her father's kin was completed. She closed the book and let it lie on the desk, blew out the lamp-flame and left the study.

A quick look out an open window revealed an ink-dark sky dotted with stars. Idrin drew the shutters and climbed the flight of stairs to the landing. She would go to Faramir in the morning.

After a warm bath, she descended to the kitchen. Signs of movement within, where all had been quiet before, made her heart give a wild leap in her chest and for an instant the breath caught in her throat. Her feet came to an abrupt halt at the doorway. Then the fleeting moment of surprise passed and Idrin recognised her brothers. She relaxed and walked in towards them.

“How are Faervel and Orien? Gladhwen?” she asked.

“All are well,” replied Arvinion. “Faervel is busy with running the household and helping her father manage his trade affairs when need be.” He chuckled. “Were my wife a man, she would have made a fair merchant herself.” He watched Idrin move about the kitchen, finding pots and plates and knives, and went on: “Orien has taken to drawing and asks when she might learn how to ride. She has grown so since I saw her last.”

Following his sister with his gaze, Arvinion saw the expression of fondness on her features turn to gloom for the barest moment, the motion of her hands slow for a passing second. Perhaps it was that she missed her young niece and sisters-by-marriage, whom she hadn't seen in a good while. Then the impression fled and Idrin was turning to regard her second brother.

There was a gleam in Damhir's eyes that the young woman had never seen before.

“I am to become a father,” he said promptly, his mouth curving into a smile. His sister's face lit up but Damhir's countenance dimmed shortly. He grimaced, shaking his head once. “A fine time for such news, is it not?” The man heaved a deep breath. “Gladhwen is distraught; she fears the shadow in the East and what the future may bring.” He huffed. “Her anxiety is distracting.”

Arvinion peered at his younger brother. “There is good reason for her worrying but your wife needs to calm herself.” His eyes fell on a small wicker basket lined with thick green cloth and turned to his sister. “Has Nathes sent word?”

Idrin stirred. “Apart from the letter writing that the two of them arrived in Lebennin in good time, there has been no news,” she replied.

She went back to cooking, and the hours were spent in quiet conversation, the night going quickly by.

When Idrin rose in the grey hour before sunrise, she found her brothers in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. They ate in silence and then, much sooner than she would have liked, she was by the garden-gate, watching Arvinion and Damhir round the bend to the front of the house, leading their mounts. There was a moment of quiet as they stood before her, the breath of their horses misting in the cold air. Idrin embraced her siblings close.

"Return safely," she said and drew back to watch them pass under the gate of the fifth circle.

* * *

Pale daylight was just beginning to touch the treetops when Éothain found himself waiting near the gate of the Houses of Healing. Leaning on one foot, he gazed out into the main road, a light in his eyes. He fingered the hem of his gambeson. Newly cleaned and mended, the padded garment had, for a brief spell, felt heavier than he recalled when he had put it on after rising; and his shirt of mail had seemed to make the strain on his right leg more evident. It had been a few moments before he once again grew familiar with the added weight of his sword-belt and sword, an he had paced the length of his room carefully until the first break of dawn, reacquainting himself with his armour. Then he had shed the hauberk and blade and left his room, his step brisk.

Éothain's fingers were presently stilled as he set eyes upon the tall figure passing through the open wrought-iron gate, fully armoured and holding a white-crested helm under one arm.

The new king of Rohan peered at his kinsman. “The healers have released you from their care, then?” he called.

“Grudgingly so,” replied Éothain, turning about when Éomer reached him and walking with him towards the cluster of stone buildings that housed the wounded.

Éomer glanced at the man's injured leg once more, noting his limping progress. He regarded him with a calculating stare. “If I understand that you cannot support your weight when the time of battle comes, you will go back to the tents with the esquires and healers.”

Éothain met the level gaze steadily but said nothing.

Passing by a half-open window, they caught fleeting sight of flaxen hair and a gaunt face, and heard a man's low voice:

"Why do you fight to save me, Mistress? My leg is gone. I will never be able to ride a horse again."

The tone was one of despair, but a female voice countered it in reply: "You may not be able to ride into battle, but your experience will be valuable to others." The woman hidden from view spoke calmly, her words slow. "You will pass the knowledge you carry to the younger ones. As long as man draws breath, he is not useless."

Éomer and Éothain shared a glance.

“You should visit with them, those who are in the care of the healers,” said Éothain when they had walked a few paces farther.

The new king nodded slowly. “I shall.”

They went on in silence, and when they reached the southernmost wing of the Houses, they found Éowyn standing at the window of her chamber, her mouth pressed in a thin line and a thoughtful expression on her face. She spun round when she felt their presence and her eyes flashed at the sight of them clad for battle.

Éothain peered at her. "It is good to see that your arm is healing, Éowyn," he said.

She merely gave a half-hearted nod. "You are fortunate, cousin," she spoke at last. "Your injury does not hinder you."

There was a hint of longing in her voice that Éothain did not understand. Then, in the instant of quiet that followed, he remembered the late visit he had the previous evening and met Éowyn's eyes.

“Windfola was found by the banks of the River last night,” he said. “My men suppose he had wandered far afield in his terror after he fled from the Lord of the Ringwraiths and his winged creature during the battle. He bears no grave injuries; his wounds were dressed and he was taken to the Steward's stables to rest.”

Éowyn's face softened. “I am glad,” she said. “To see Windfola again is something to look forward to, since there is naught else to do.”

There was a twinge of sadness in her voice despite her words, and Éothain suddenly felt his presence could do no more to lighten the mood that was upon her. He drew himself up. “I must go and get ready,” he said, making slowly for the door and closing it behind him.

When he had gone, Éomer turned to Éowyn. "What troubles you?" He sat by his sister on the bed.

She turned dark eyes on him. "Can you not guess? You know what I yearn for. You ride to battle and renown and I stay behind to while away the long hours in sloth."

The new king studied her. "What you yearn for cannot be granted," he said at last. “War does not become women, Éowyn. Thou canst reside in a house of peace while such still lasts. Heal thy body and mind and do not seek for glory in death.”

Éowyn held his gaze for several moments without speaking. Then she ducked her head, and when she looked up at him again, the intensity in her look had dimmed. "Safe journey," she said.

There was still coolness in her clear eyes as she spoke, but Éomer knew it was transient. He rose to his feet. "Farewell, sister." He cast her a fond glance and left the room.

Éowyn watched him go, quietly.

* * *

Minas Tirith was humming with still watchfulness.

Idrin stood upon the wall of the sixth circle with Faramir at her side. The sun reflected on helms and spears on the field of the Pelennor below, glinting off them in bright flashes. The host was assembled: the great sable standard bearing the device of seven stars and crown above the white tree was in the van, and behind it were the white-horse-upon-green of Rohan and the silver swan of Dol Amroth. The people remaining in the City looked down from windows and parapets, but there was no cheering to send the army off: all awaited the trumpet-call with grim patience.

"It feels strange that we should have a King after the War."

The words were said in a whisper, but the silence all about made them loud enough to be heard. The man who had spoken was one of a twain standing a few feet away from Idrin and Faramir. "He is a great leader of Men, they say; a warrior and a healer,” he told the one beside him. “I have seen him cure one of my kinsmen from the Black Breath with my own eyes.”

His companion kept his attention on the host below. "Even the greatest warrior may not survive this last coming battle," he said curtly. "And if he be indeed the heir of Isildur, why did he not claim the kingship sooner?”

The man with him had no reply to offer.

Just then, the clear sound of a trumpet was heard. The army began its march, and those in the city watched men and beasts slowly dwindle in the distance.

When naught remained before the Great Gate, Idrin turned to Faramir. As she caught his eye, he turned a fleeting glance on the pair of men nearby and made for the steps hewn into the wall.

“It will be some time before the Lord Aragorn's claim is fully accepted by all, it seems,” he said as they wove their way back to the Houses. “Victory in battle, should it come, might strengthen people's trust.”

By his side, Idrin hummed quietly in agreement. Walking with Faramir to his room, she bid him farewell and went to commence the day's work. As she continued alone down the silent corridor, she heard clear speech coming from farther ahead:

“I wish to go to the stables.”

The female voice that answered this demand was younger, holding a trace of wonder: “Lady, you are to stay in the keeping of the healers for many days yet.”

Approaching the source of the conversation, Idrin saw an open door looming closer to her right, light spilling from within the chamber and into the corridor.

“I am to be under their care, not a prisoner,” returned the first woman coolly. “It is my arm and not my legs that requires mending. I will return.”

Drawing almost level with the room, Idrin caught sight of an orderly's dove-grey garb peeking from the doorway and at length heard the young girl say: “I have not the authority to make such decisions, lady. I do not know if —“

“Who would make such decisions?”

Passing by the chamber, the healer now glimpsed the lady Éowyn standing before the orderly, proud and erect, her eyes bright.

“Mistress Idrin!”

The orderly's voice made the healer pause and turn back. The lady of Rohan peered at Idrin from within the room, and the girl's gaze was fixed on her.

“The lady Éowyn wishes to visit the stables,” said the orderly promptly.

Idrin considered the words and met Éowyn's gaze. “I see no harm in that; yet I understand that the Warden himself was tasked with your keeping in these Houses. Whatever orders he gave on this matter, I cannot revoke. In his domain the Warden is master.”

Éowyn looked at her for a moment. “It is the Warden I should seek, then,” she said.

“Indeed,” returned Idrin, averting her attention from the appraising grey eyes and taking a step back from the threshold. “Good-day, lady.”

The lady of Rohan stared after the retreating form and dismissed the orderly, shutting the door behind her.


	12. Chapter 11

**PART II:  
** **UNDER TREES OF GOLD**  
—

**Chapter 11**

The weather could be a fickle thing. Crossing the west lawn of the Houses of Healing, Idrin glanced up at the bright sky, wondering. Not so long earlier a great blast of wind had gusted through the city, making window-shutters rattle and roaring wildly through tree-branches, bringing with it an icy chill, yet now all was still and the sun was blazing.

The young woman found Merry Brandybuck standing just inside an open doorway that led to the covered walk facing the south garden, fingering a small pipe with a curved stem.

The Halfling turned at the sound of footsteps and tried to stifle his amusement as the healer stopped short, her nose twitching for the most fleeting of moments when she caught sight of the pipe in his hand, one eyebrow rising as she peered at it.

“I shan't smoke here,” said Merry with a small laugh; “I am bound for the garden.”

Idrin shook her head. “I shall never understand what it is that makes the burning leaves of _galenas_ so appealing to you. The fragrance of its flowers is sweet, true enough, but to draw such smoke into the lungs...”

The Halfling hummed, twirling the pipe in his fingers. “'Tis one of life's little pleasures,” he said. “Sitting back with a pipe can be a relaxing thing, calming to the mind.”

The healer's head absently tipped on one side as she considered the words. “Each to his own, I suppose,” she said at last with a small shrug. “The Men of Gondor do not smoke, so the habit seems strange to us.”¹

“It is much like Hobbits and boats,” said Merry: “we Brandybucks can handle boats and swim and because of that many Hobbits think we are a queer sort. Of course, the fact that we live by the Old Forest adds to that.” He chuckled to himself and caught the healer's curious gaze. “It's a forest on the borders of my land that none – well, except for a few adventurous Brandybucks – dare enter. We had to cross it when we left the Shire. It's a dark and stuffy place, and the trees in there aren't friendly – they must have been Ents once, Ents who went tree-ish, or trees who went Entish, as Treebeard in Fangorn Forest puts it.”

Idrin was looking at him, her eyes bright. “I have heard stories of Ents but never thought there was any truth to them.”

“Treebeard is the oldest of the Ents,” said Merry; ”he even knew the West of Middle-earth before it sank.”

There was wonder in the young woman's gaze as she watched him. “It is like a children's tale come to life.” Her voice was low as she spoke and her face lit. “To think that such creatures truly exist... it is almost unbelievable.”

Merry began to nod but his attention was suddenly caught by a flurry of movement and lively whispers in a group of convalescing soldiers nearby: the men's quiet voices had become more excited and they gestured towards the sky briskly. Following their gaze, the Halfling saw the reason for their awe and stared wide-eyed at the great Eagle coming out of the East. He was aware that Idrin beside him had become still, her attention fixed on the mighty bird.

The Eagle soared over the Guarded City, bearing tidings of the downfall of the Dark Lord and the crumbling of his Tower, and Merry felt as though a swarm of butterflies were fluttering in his chest.

“The Shadow has passed,” he whispered. “It is truly over at last.” His face beaming, he turned to Idrin, looking up at her with a wide grin.

The healer met his enthusiasm with a slow smile and then blinked. “The War is ended,” she said as though talking to herself. “Battle will no longer be lurking on our borders.” She blinked again and looked about her as one drawn from a daze. “I must take my leave of you, Meriadoc; there is much to be done.” There was cheer in her voice and her steps were light as she passed beneath the arched entryway, going into the building.

Behind her, Merry smiled softly at the garden stretching in front of him, humming under his breath.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, as night fell on the plain of Dagorlad, dozens of small fires kept the darkness at bay. Beyond the reach of the farthest firelight lay the final resting place of those Men slain in battle, the freshly dug mounds barely discernible in the deep gloom. Farther even, the pyres where their fallen enemies had been given to the flames smoked still, though faintly.

Within the camp, Men sat around bright firepits and by the entrances of tents, talking and drinking and whetting blades. Healers milled about, tending the more severely injured, while a small band of soldiers undertook the task of preparing food. The night was alive with many voices.

“How are your men, Éothain?”

The loud call came from the vicinity of his tent, and the man in question saw that King Éomer and several others were seated around a crackling fire nearby. He came to a slow halt by them, his right leg dragging slightly. “Well enough, now their wounds have been tended,” he replied, “though the last blow dealt to Heregár cost him his sight. He will return to Minas Tirith with the wagons on the morrow.”

Éomer nodded and gave the Captain of his household _éored_ a measured look. “Now, sit and pay more mind to your leg. I had thought the battle would cripple you.”

Éothain sat across from him. “It did not,” he returned curtly, his mouth tightening.

“You might still end up with a lame limb if you do not take more care,” the king pressed on.

Éothain huffed. “You sound like the healer who stitched me in Mundburg. So insistent I should stay there and do nothing.”

The dark-haired man seated beside Erkenbrand looked up at the captain as he stirred the fire with a stick. The logs crackled and sparks rose up into the night air. “You yourself said your father lost the use of his leg because he paid little heed to the healers. If the muscle tears again, you will be in no better position.”

Éothain's jaw clenched for a moment. “I have used the salve and rested as much as I could,” he said. “Stiffness is to be expected after a battle like the one we gave today.”

Across from him, Éomer shook his head, his lip curling. “Stubborn ass.”

Éothain turned his gaze on him and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a voice on the edge of the firelight interrupted him.

“The cooks tell me supper will be ready in a few minutes.”

The dark-headed man who had spoken came to stand by the other Gondorian in the small company.

Éomer rose and looked about. “This place now looks less dreary in moonlight,” he said, “yet I shall not rest comfortably until we leave it behind us.”

“None of us will find easy repose tonight, I think,” returned the second Gondorian as he got to his feet. He looked down at Éothain.

The man nodded towards the cookfires. “Go,” he said. “I will join you shortly.”

He watched the others walking away and stood. On the far side of the camp Éothain could see the crude enclosure erected to hold the army's destriers and dray-horses, a section of the temporary paddock set apart for the swift horses of messengers. Eight men would ride from the encampment at first light, bound for Cair Andros and thence north and south of the White Mountains, bearing the news of the Dark Lord's defeat.

Éothain considered the wooden sheds for a moment and took a step towards them when a sudden pain made him wince and stop. He turned instead to his tent and strode inside, rummaging in the saddlebags beside his bedroll. He found clean cloths, filled a bowl with water and carried everything to a seat near the open tent-flap. Sitting so that the fire provided enough light and warmth, he took off his tunic and probed carefully at his lower back.  
Even though he could not see it, he could feel the sword-cut was not very deep, but a bruise had formed nearly a hand's width above it where a heavy blow had forced his mail-shirt into his right side. He ground his teeth against a wince and reached for a cloth to dunk in water and wash the wound.

"'Tis more prudent to let another treat a wound you cannot see," a voice came suddenly from the vicinity, making him look up sharply. The soon-to-be-crowned King of Gondor stepped around the firepit and squatted next to him. "Let me."

The Rider allowed the man to take the cloth from his hands. "Thank you, lord." Silence fell for a time as Aragorn cleaned the wound gently, but Éothain soon opened his mouth. “You have tended the injured since the battle ended,” he said and then paused, considering.

Aragorn felt the Rider's hesitation. “I have ever seen to the hurts of my companions, Éothain,” he returned; “that will not change now.” He reached inside the small bag he carried, daubed salve on the man's wound and bound soft pads of cotton-cloth to his side. Éothain was still.

“The people of Gondor are fortunate to have such a king,” he said slowly.

Aragorn bowed his head, the corners of his mouth moving imperceptibly. His gaze fell on a dark smudge staining Éothain's breeches above one boot when the Rider shifted in his seat, and he gestured towards it. “Let me see your leg.”

Readjusting his tunic, Éothain glanced up at him before obliging. "I cut the stitches yestereve,” he said as the skin was slowly exposed.

Aragorn peered at the crimson marks left on the flesh and scrubbed the crusted blood away. Fresh red drops appeared when he probed the area where the first stitches had been. “They cut into the flesh, and here the skin has not knit together as it should,” he said looking up. “You should be more mindful of this wound. Have you salve to treat it?”

“I do,” replied the Rider as Aragorn reached for the jar of ointment beside him.

* * *

It was five days later that the messengers came to the Guarded City. Two rode up to the Citadel in search of Faramir while the others stationed themselves in the large square in the fourth circle, with rolls of parchment recording the names of those fallen on the battlefield and letters in need of delivery.

So it was that near sunset one of the young boys running errands for the healers found Idrin and placed a letter in her hand. The seal was plain and the writing on the back was in Arvinion's slightly angular script. She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight and thanked the lad, making towards the Citadel.

Once within the Steward's House, the young woman broke the wax that sealed the letter and smoothed the page. Both he and Damhir were well, her brother wrote; he wrote also of their march to the Black Gate and of the battle they had fought and the brothers-in-arms they had lost, of the coming of great Eagles out of the West and of the fall of Mordor. They would celebrate their victory on the field of Cormallen, he finished, and hoped she might be able to join them there if her duties at the Houses allowed.

Idrin felt warmth spreading through her limbs at the prospect of being reunited with her brothers so soon; she would speak with the Chief Healer the following day, she decided.

After a visit to her bedchamber to refresh herself, she descended to the dining hall where she found the housekeeper examining the set table, her gaze critical.

The tall, stout woman turned dark eyes on Idrin when she perceived she was not alone and bowed her head. “Good evening, lady. I trust you had word from your brothers.”

Idrin smiled widely. “Yes, both are well. I may join them on Cormallen if the Chief Healer gives me leave.”

The housekeeper's mouth twitched for the most fleeting of instances. “You are lucky, child.” Her voice was slow and dull, tired.

The glimmer in Idrin's eyes faded and she peered at the middle-aged woman. “Is it your son, Laidhril?”

The housekeeper's grave face was still. “He fell at Cair Andros.” She heaved a deep breath and swallowed hard. “He was no soldier,” she whispered slowly as though speaking to herself.

Idrin looked at her, silent. Laidhril's son was a farmer, she knew, like the late father he had never met. The young woman brought to mind those close to her that the War had claimed nearly one year past – she had mourned for them, yet now it all seemed so distant. “He wanted to serve his king,” she said at last.

“Aye,” the housekeeper muttered, “and that service cost him his life.” After a while, she shook her head. “I should not lay my burdens on you, lady,” she said.

Idrin studied her. “Go and seek what repose you may, Laidhril. The servants can handle the rest tonight.”

The woman inclined her head slowly. “Thank you, lady.”

As the housekeeper turned away, Idrin saw Faramir entering the dining hall. He gave her a wan smile and sank promptly into a chair. The young woman took a seat across from him.

“A long day, cousin?” she enquired.

Faramir reached for the cup of wine a serving-man placed before him. “Yes,” he said, “dominated by books of account and councillors.” He set the cup down. “Those Rohirrim who fell on the Pelennor and before the Black Gate, as well as those who succumbed to their injuries in the Houses of Healing have been named, and the two messengers King Éomer sent here will return what belongings the soldiers had to their families in Rohan.”

A second serving-man brought their evening meal, and Faramir helped himself to cold capon. “The City will soon flood with both returning citizens and soldiers,” he said; “their provender shall have to be seen to, and the clothing of the returning army, no doubt. The King's House shall have to be aired and cleaned, domestics found to serve there when the Lord Elessar settles in.” He let out a deep breath and looked at Idrin. “Would you help me with this last task? Your skill at seeing to such things far surpasses mine.”

Idrin had glanced up from her plate. “Of course,” she now said promptly.

Faramir gave a short sigh. “I miss the days when I was confined to the Houses of Healing, merely resting and speaking with Éowyn.”

The young woman peered at him. She had seen her cousin and Éowyn walking together in the garden of the Houses, and the White Lady of Rohan had looked quite lovely when she smiled. “You are fond of her.”

“I am,” Faramir admitted; “but it has been some days since we spoke last.”

Idrin sipped from her cup. “Council matters cannot last forever.”

The Steward of Gondor nodded absently.

* * *

¹ 'The Men of Gondor call [pipe-weed]  _sweet galenas_ , and esteem it only for the fragrance of its flowers.' ( _The Lord of the Rings_ , Prologue,  _Concerning Pipe-weed_ )


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter** **1** **2**

"Would you like to go and sit in the garden until supper-time? I can send for an orderly."

The flaxen-haired man turned his gaze from the open window to Idrin and then to the wheeled-chair by the wall opposite him. He studied it for a long moment in silence with a sombre expression on his face and then looked back at the healer.

"No," he said heavily, the short word hanging gravely in the air. He blinked and his eyes cleared. "I would stay here and look outside." He put a hand to the cold stone of the window-sill and pulled himself and his chair as close to the wall as the strength in his arm and single leg would allow.

Idrin watched him for an instant. "As you wish," she said. "Good-night." She turned on her heel and left the man gazing out into the deepening dusk.

Slowly she turned her footsteps towards the study of the Chief Healer and upon entering found him sitting at his desk. Yet even as she began speaking, asking leave to go to Cormallen, a twinge of unease pricked at her.

When she finished, Neston settled back into his chair. "With all the healers and orderlies gone East, and with the wounded Rohirrim of Marshal Elfhelm's forces now coming in from Anórien, we need all available hands here," he said. "Everyone has more than enough work as it is." The man's calm gaze bored into her.

Idrin met his eyes, even though her spirits plummeted. "Of course." She forced her voice to sound even.

She shouldn't be so selfish, she reflected when she took her leave: those under her care needed her and, after all, she wasn't the only one who yearned to be reunited with absent loved ones. She ought to endure a few more days of waiting.

Ascending to the seventh level, she found Merry Brandybuck sitting on the stone seat beside the fountain. His attention was given wholly to writing in a small leather-bound book, but he glanced up when the approaching woman greeted him.

"Hello," he returned, scrawling something hastily on the page before looking at her again. "I've been meaning to ask, how far is it from Minas Tirith to Cormallen?" He gestured to the little book in his lap. "I have been keeping a record of our journey; cousin Bilbo will want to hear all about it when we meet – he's very fond of details."

Idrin caught herself almost smiling and took a moment to think. "It has been a while since I last studied a map but if I recall correctly, the distance is about sixty-five miles."¹

"Will you go there?"

The healer shook her head. "Would that I could, Merry. I have duties here." She paused. "I leave you to your journal." The young woman inclined her head. "Have a good evening."

Merry returned the farewell and after a moment went back to his scribbling.

* * *

Reaching the Steward's House and her bedchamber, the healer changed her dress and opened the window to let in the evening breeze before sitting at her dressing-table. She picked up quill and paper and penned a short letter to her brothers, sharing small news of her work at the Houses and of Faramir, of the going-ons in the Citadel and lastly writing she would not join them at Cormallen. At least her staying in Minas Tirith meant she would have more time to help her cousin, she mused.

Idrin folded the letter and went in search of the man-servant who would deliver it to the messenger bound across the River come morning. Then, settling in the large drawing room near the dining hall to while away the time until the serving of supper, she summoned Laidhril.

As she waited, the young woman brought to mind her visiting with her father's old friend a few days past, and the retired captain's and her speaking long together of many things. Of their conversation drifting from his muscle-wasting ailment and the Houses of Healing to the new King to come, it was his words concerning acquaintances who had recently passed and those left behind that returned to the forefront of her mind. Presently, when Laidhril came into the room, Idrin gestured readily towards an empty chair.

"The King will soon return to the City, and, in addition to a chamberlain, he shall need a good housekeeper," said the young woman promptly. "The Lord Húron has brought one Raenith to my notice, a widow who kept the house of Lord Oradan ere he passed because of sickness. She is a worthy and trusted woman, he says, but I would have your thoughts on the matter, also." She looked into the older woman's face.

Laidhril sat lightly in her chair. "She is indeed a capable housekeeper, lady," she replied: "efficient and well-thought-of. I have known her for many years, and her work is commendable, if I may say so."

Idrin thought for a moment and then spoke: “If she meets with your approval, I should like to make her acquaintance. Would you arrange an interview?”

“I shall go and see her tomorrow, lady,” returned the housekeeper. "As for a chamberlain, if one has not yet been considered, I believe Penior may be able to suggest competent persons of his association," she added.

Idrin inclined her head. "I will speak with him, then."

* * *

Shortly after midday three days later, a small procession of wagons and mounted men rattled their way up to the sixth circle of the Guarded City. The gate to the Houses of Healing was flung wide to admit them, and several minutes later a thin stream of wounded soldiers began to trickle into the nearest building, accompanied by a handful of healers and orderlies. Most of the injured men lacked limbs, or else had lost the strength or skill to use them.

"Their hurts are such as can't be properly tended to on the field," said the old wife Ioreth to a woman beside her. "And then there's those who aren't fatally wounded but don't want to stay at Cormallen; they've not much mind for feasting and merrymaking, it would seem."

And before long, healers and orderlies were summoned to a meeting, and the Chief Healer stood grave before them.

"Five of our number were lost before the Black Gate," he said. Deep silence followed his words. "Those who remain at Cormallen shall need assistance," Neston went on, "for soldiers have passed into Mordor itself to bring down its fortresses and many still fight with the remnants of the Enemy's scattered forces. Two healers and as many orderlies we can spare; choose as you will. Those who will go, find me once the decision is made; the new charges οf the rest shall be made known ere the day is done."

There was a long moment of quiet after the Chief Healer went from the room.

"I would go." A female voice broke the hush, loud and eager. All eyes turned to the young healer who had spoken, and then two orderlies proclaimed their wish as well.

Idrin frowned when the quiet threatened to descend once more, but her heart beat fast within her breast. "I would go, also," she spoke at last and then, in mute agreement, the crowd began to disperse slowly.

The young woman found herself beside the middle-aged healer Berenil. She glanced at her as they walked, drew a small breath but hesitated. "Your son is at Cormallen, is he not?" she asked finally.

The older woman looked at her as the halting enquiry was posed, and a faint smile brushed the corners of her mouth. "He is," she affirmed, peering shrewdly at Idrin. "Knowing that he is well is enough to make the waiting bearable; it does not matter whether we see each other again now or in ten days." Berenil paused for an instant. "That is the way of it with most people of our age: such patience becomes part of us. Of those healers and orderlies now remaining in the City, you and Redhriel are the youngest – she has one brother east of the Anduin; you have two: certain eagerness is to be expected." She smiled.

Idrin could not help but mirror the expression, her trepidation fled.

When she returned to the Steward’s House a while later, she sought Faramir and told him of the Chief Healer’s decision and her going to the Field of Cormallen.

“I shall find a housekeeper for the King’s House ere I go, however, so that all may run smoothly; and I expect Penior will have thought of a capable chamberlain to serve there,” she went on. “I will meet with the woman who kept the Lord Oradan’s house today. Laidhril speaks highly of her.”

“She must be worthy indeed,” returned Faramir. He laid down his quill and peered at Idrin. “And since you are to travel, you shall need a mount. How long has it been since you rode last?”

The young woman took a moment to search her memory. “Seven months at the least.”

Faramir thought for a spell. “I will make enquiries for a suitable palfrey. Mablung should be able to help.”

“Mablung?”

“He is in charge of the King’s stables now,” the Steward of Gondor explained. “His injuries during the last battle were such as to limit the use of his sword arm significantly, yet he trusts he shall be able to wield a weapon with his right hand efficiently in time. Until then, since he has great love and knowledge of horses, and as old Olpher can no longer work due to his age, Mablung has accepted the post of stable-master.”²

“I see,” said Idrin. “My meeting with Raenith shall have finished by supper-time,” she added; “I will be in the east drawing room until then, I suppose.” The young woman quitted the study, leaving Faramir to his ink and scrolls, and went to her chamber. She descended again when nearly two hours had passed, rested and in clean clothes, and made for the east wing, towards the small drawing room her aunt Ivreth had favoured.

Idrin cast a look about as she entered, her gaze lingering on the burnished furniture and the glowing embers in the small hearth and the shut panes at the window. She sat on a couch by the tea-table and contemplated the tapestry beside it for a moment, watching the afternoon light play on the woven flower-bushes. Her attention was soon claimed by the appearance of a man-servant at the door.

“Mistress Raenith has arrived, m’lady.”

Idrin rose from her seat when a slim woman with greying hair was shown in. “Mistress Raenith, come, sit.” She watched the sinewy housekeeper as she settled in a chair across from her. “I was told you served the Lord Oradan.”

“I belonged to his household for four decades,” returned the woman. “I managed the domestics and kept the Lord Oradan’s account-books, attended to the linen-closet and saw to the state of the bedrooms for thirty of those years, without fault.”

The young woman’s eyes sparkled at those last words. “I do not doubt it,” she said solemnly, momentarily shifting her attention to the maid who had put down the tea-salver. “You shall be relieved of some of your account-keeping tasks by the chamberlain, but you understand that keeping the King’s house is more demanding than serving any other lord,” she went on: “there are more female servants to oversee, more rooms to attend to, larger parties to entertain, stricter forms to be observed.” Idrin paused and took a sip from her cup, peering at the housekeeper over the rim.

“I am no stranger to hard work, lady,” returned Raenith.

* * *

"Come."

Faramir's eyes glinted as he beckoned the young woman to follow him, and Idrin obliged.

"You will like him, I am certain of that," the Steward of Gondor went on as they crossed the Place of the Fountain, the early morning light making the pooled water sparkle faintly. "He is a sure-footed horse and has an easy temperament. Mablung found him."

They halted by the tunnel's entrance where they saw Meriadoc Brandybuck waiting. The Halfling turned to Idrin after acknowledging them, noting the full skirts and boots she wore. "You go riding?"

The young woman nodded. "I need to reacquaint myself with horses ere we leave for Cormallen. It has been some time since I last was in the saddle."

"You will go, then?"

Idrin picked up her skirts again as they passed beneath the archway leading into the tunnel. "The healers there are fewer than they initially were; all help is needed."

When they reached the sixth circle, they found Mablung inside the stables. Idrin noted the Ranger looked careworn, his hair was longer and his shoulders more stooped. Bandages wrapped both his hands, and two of his fingers were shorter than the rest.

He exchanged a few words with Faramir and then greeted the young woman and the Hobbit, motioning them farther in.

"Here they are," said the Steward when they came to a stop before a large box.

The horse within was a tan-coloured, clean-limbed gelding with a long arched neck. He stepped closer to the gate and looked at them with dark-brown eyes. In the box next to the gelding's, a chestnut-coated pony with silky mane stood by the manger, his ears swivelling momentarily in the direction of the new noises as he ate.

Mablung moved towards the gelding. "A fine animal, this one," he said, his features softening as he patted the horse's neck. "And this fellow here is sturdier than he looks." He motioned to the pony.

Idrin closed the distance to the gelding's box. "He is beautiful." She held out her palm and the horse lowered his head over it, sniffing her fingers. Beside her, Merry inspected the pony, and the animal now gazed back at him, his tail swishing leisurely.

"I shall bring your saddles," said Mablung and went towards the back of the stables.

Faramir watched the young woman and the Hobbit quietly, a small smile tugging gently at his lips. Then, after a few moments, he drew himself up. "I must return to my study; much work awaits."

Idrin and Merry tore their attention away from their new mounts.

"Will you not join us for a short ride?" asked the Halfling.

"I wish I could," returned Faramir, "but time is pressing and there are many things to see to. Mablung shall keep you good company." He tipped his head to the Ranger who had just returned, followed closely by a stablehand and laden with equipment.

When Faramir made his exit, the man set to saddling the gelding, while Merry insisted on preparing his pony himself, pleading a need to shake off idleness.

Idrin stood near the boxes, watching, when a loud whinny made her turn. A golden-haired woman garbed in split skirts stood near the doors, and a great grey horse stretched its neck above the box-gate before her to nuzzle at her face. The woman smiled and reached a hand towards the animal.

"Lady Éowyn."

Leading his pony from his box, Merry had halted beside Idrin and his face broke into a grin. "Your arm has healed?"

Éowyn turned. "It has mended well enough," she replied, "so I need not be confined any more."

The words were spoken in a flat voice, Idrin noted, yet when the grey horse blew in her braided hair, the countenance of the White Lady of Rohan brightened.

"I see Windfola is well," said Merry, moving towards the young woman and the great steed.

"He was not badly wounded, and his injuries were well taken care of." Éowyn stopped a passing stableboy with a command to bring her saddle and bridle, and the lad hastened away. She glanced in Mablung’s direction as he emerged from the gelding’s box, leading the tan-coloured horse.  
  
Walking beside the Ranger as he made for the doors, Idrin laid a light hand on the gelding's neck when they halted near Éowyn. "Is he yours?" she asked the other woman slowly, taking in the great horse Windfola.

"I rode him to the Pelennor, but he is not mine," answered Éowyn. "He was one of the spare destriers from Dunharrow, though he was trained at Edoras. I knew him then, and for that reason I chose him for my mount."³ She turned from the small company and caressed the war-horse.

Idrin watched her, trying to view her clad in mail and girt with a sword, and once more wondered what had driven her to the battlefield.

The stablehand returned then, bearing harness and saddle, but Éowyn dismissed his offer of help and began saddling the destrier herself, her face set despite her slow and short movements.

"Shall I send for someone to accompany you, lady?"

The woman stilled her hands and met Mablung's gaze, her eyes clear and voice crisp. "There is no need. I shall not go beyond the exercise yard."

The Ranger gave a silent nod and began walking again, Idrin and Merry following.

* * *

"I shall want the wooden tub packed, as well."

Idrin stood in the middle of her bedchamber, surveying a chest of neatly folded clothing and small bags by the foot of the bed. Across from her, the sky beyond the open window was black and dotted with stars, and the night outside was cool. When she glanced up at the chambermaid, the domestic was looking at her strangely.

"The wooden tub, lady?"

Idrin met the younger woman's gaze steadily. "The soldiers may not mind the lack of bathtubs," she said, "but I have no desire to scour the riverbank for a private spot in order to bathe." Her nose crinkled for a fleeting moment. "And I am certain the other women will appreciate it also."

The chambermaid blinked and ducked her head. "Of course." When Idrin excused her, she hurried outside and down the corridor.

Within the room, the healer cast an appraising eye over the contents of the chest once more, drew down the lid and sat at her dressing-table where an unfolded letter lay. 

* * *

¹ The distance between Minas Tirith and Cormallen is calculated by studying Tolkien's maps and Karen Wynn Fonstad's _The_ _Atlas of Middle-earth_.

² The last mention of Mablung in Tolkien's works is of him and his scouts discovering  an enemy ambush in Ithilien during the march on the Black Gate ( _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ _,_ Book 5, Chapter X); the rest is of my creation.

³ Windfola's background is of my invention. It is highly unlikely that he would actually be owned and ridden by Éowyn, since war-horses 'were bred exclusively for fighting . . . [and] not for everyday use', and '[palfreys] were the only type of horse ridden by ladies' (Catherine Hanley, _War and Combat, 1150-1270_ ).


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter** **13**

They set out the following day, one hour after sunrise. Apart from the healers, orderlies and Merry, the party riding East comprised of cooks and house-servants and a half dozen soldiers, as well as a minstrel and a harpist from Lebennin who had joined them outside the City. They rode through burned land and met no soul on the road until they reached Osgiliath. There, workers and builders and masons went about repairing the destroyed stone bridges and docks.

As the men made camp and tended the horses, Idrin took a few moments to look about her darkening surroundings. What had once been stone houses now stood empty and cheerless: roofs and walls had crumbled to expose rooms and halls to the elements, and doors and windows were gone. The cobbles paving the wide streets were broken, and tufts of grass peeked between cracks. Going to where Redhriel sat on a smooth slab, Idrin made to lower herself beside her and halted suddenly, eyes flitting over the stone. She took out a linen handkerchief and stood frowning at the surface for a while before finally tucking the piece of cloth away and sitting slowly. She let out a long breath.

"My legs hurt terribly." She sighed, rearranging her skirts as she stretched her legs before her.

Redhriel gave a knowing nod. "It can take some time for the body to become accustomed to such riding, but a side-saddle would spare you much discomfort."

"I was never taught how to ride in that fashion," returned Idrin. She paused. "I tried once, as many ladies prefer it, but the posture was uncomfortable."

"I managed to ride aside only a handful of times, and it did feel rather awkward," Redhriel agreed, "though I suppose it is a matter of practice. I have heard most women in Rohan ride astride, wearing breeches and split skirts. Such a riding habit sounds quite more practical than full skirts." The young healer patted the heavy cloth of her dress, grinning. Then something behind her companion caught her gaze. "The tents are set up."

Idrin shifted to look and began to rise to her feet, wincing at the twinge of pain pricking her legs. She stood for a moment and brushed her skirts carefully, glancing at the grey waters of the Anduin nearby before following Redhriel.

* * *

They took ship at dawn under a clear blue sky. The sun shone brightly and the wind was in the South, and they reached Cair Andros some time after mid-afternoon. They moored on the east side of the island, beside many other ships flying pennants of Gondor. Upon disembarking they were met with signs of brisk activity: as in Osgiliath, so in Cair Andros watch-towers and walls were being repaired.

The means of crossing from the island-fortress into North Ithilien was a sturdy boat-bridge north of the docks, and the party made their way across the river in single file. Afterwards they rode through trampled land but when they turned southwards, their surroundings became green again. Then, after some time, a line of tall trees appeared before them in the distance.

Riding beside Merry, Idrin heard the Halfling draw a breath when the living wall loomed closer.

"There's something almost Elvish about them."

There was wonder in his voice, and the young woman turned to look at him. The Halfling was still gazing at the trees, his eyes fixed on the flowers hanging like a multitude of delicate chains from the boughs, coloured in sheer gold and tinted with the palest red.

"There are trees in Lothlórien," Merry continued, "mallorn-trees, with grey trunks and golden leaves. These here remind me of them, even though they look different – they seem strangely akin."

"They are called _culumaldar_ , because of the colour of their flowers," said Idrin. "It is from them that Cormallen took its name."¹ She adjusted her grip on the reins and looked up at the golden blossoms as they passed beneath the branches.

The sound of many voices talking together and the noise of movement soon greeted the riding party. They had arrived at the encampment: the wide green land was dotted with tents and pavilions, and a swarm of people went to and fro.

Approaching a group of tents near the border of the lawn, two Gondorian soldiers riding before Idrin and Merry slowed their horses. One turned to the young woman. "The healers' tents are here, lady."

Idrin dismounted just as a russet-haired woman walked towards them through the open tent-flap to her left.

"Idrin, Redhriel."

Idrin mirrored her cordial expression. "Sívendil, I am glad you are well."

"Lady."

The soldier who had spoken to her before now appeared at her elbow and addressed her again. "I shall see that your horse is tended to."

The young woman gave him the gelding's reins and the man led the horse away. Another soldier followed him, leading Redhriel's mount. A few feet away, Idrin saw the two orderlies in their riding group go after a buxom woman clad in dove-grey.

"Sister!"

Arvinion's voice came from her left, and she swung round to see her brother striding towards her, beaming. Idrin turned and threw her arms about his neck. He pressed her to him.

Stepping back after a moment, Idrin looked behind her and saw the small band of cooks and servants and all but one wagon had dispersed. Merry Brandybuck was still ahorse, surveying the camp. She beckoned to him and turned to her brother.

"Arvinion, this is Meriadoc Brandybuck."

The esquire of Rohan nudged his pony forward and gave a bow as best he could from his position.

"We meet at last, Master Meriadoc," said Arvinion. "My sister speaks fondly of you and your kinsman Peregrin."

Merry dismounted. "She has kept me good company while I was recovering in the Houses of Healing."

"And has no doubt learnt all there is to know about Hobbits."

The laughing voice belonged to Gandalf. The white-robed old wizard came to stand beside them, approaching on silent feet.

Merry grinned. "Hullo, Gandalf," he greeted him. "But if you mean to accuse me of having talked the lady's ears off, I ought to say that she was genuinely interested in Hobbit-lore."

"They are a remarkable people in their own way, Mithrandir," said Idrin, her eyes lit with good humour.

"That they are, lady," the wizard agreed. He turned to Merry again. "Now, there is a friend who dearly wishes to see you, my lad."

The Halfling's face beamed. "Pippin," he murmured. He glanced back at Idrin and Arvinion, took his leave with a small bow and followed Gandalf eagerly, the pony trailing behind them.

Arvinion turned to his sister. "Halflings truly are a delightful people." At his sibling's languid gesture of agreement, he took note of the traces of fatigue on her face and let out a breath. "You must want to clean up and rest, and here I detain you from it."

The young woman looked up at him. "I shall come and find you once I have taken a bath." She followed her brother's gaze, suddenly fixed somewhere behind her. A pair of soldiers were lifting the wooden bathtub from the wain, struggling a little under the weight.

Idrin turned to Arvinion, noting the raised eyebrow, but her brother simply regarded her for an instant. Then he shook his head.

"I will come for you in two hours," he said finally. "'Tis a big camp; there is no need for you to wander around searching." He kissed her lightly on the cheek and spun on his heel.

"Lady, where should we put the bathtub?"

The soldier's rough voice claimed Idrin's attention, and she glanced about, scrutinising her surroundings. Nearby, she caught sight of Sívendil stepping out of the tent while Redhriel remained inside, bent over her small trunk. The red-headed woman gazed at the bathtub in silence. 

"Set up the tent there," replied Idrin at last, pointing to an open space close to the field's border and the wide stream that flowed to join the Anduin, flanked by golden trees that gave way to others bearing scarlet blossom farther north, "and make ready a deep firepit within." 

The man stared at her, motionless. "Within, lady?"

"The tent is large enough, and the heat will be welcome." Idrin held the soldier's gaze until he averted his eyes. She turned to the other healer. "The cloth is thick and coloured, so we can enjoy all the privacy afforded us."

Sívendil looked at her. "Bathing in the stream is not so bad."

Idrin opened her mouth, and hesitated for a moment. "Surely the comfort of a tub and soap and more solid concealment from wandering eyes is better."

The russet-haired healer gazed at her for a second. "It is, but a tub is not practical in such places," she said. "Washing in a stream does not require water to be fetched or heated,in itself a wearisome task for the person who undertakes it; and one learns to be mindful of the place where others bathe."

Idrin's eyes were bright for a fleeting moment and her fingers moved against her skirts. "Well," she said, "any who wish to use the bathtub may do so."

Sívendil blinked slowly and released a soft breath. "Come," she said at last, nodding towards the tent. "How is the restoration of the City progressing? Have people begun returning?"

Idrin went into the tent after her. "The first wains arrived the day before we set out," she replied. "The Lord Faramir has taken up his Stewardship, and the first circle of the city has been cleared of rubble and the marks of fire."

The young woman looked about her as she spoke, noting that the ornate chest she had brought with her was now placed at the foot of a crude pallet. She eyed the makeshift bed critically: a sturdy hemp-sack filled with fresh bracken was beneath the bedroll, raising it a few inches off the hard ground. She bent to press a hand down on it, smiled to herself at the almost springy feel and turned back to Sívendil.

"We have found domestics to serve in the King's House, and the whole city is being made ready to receive the king and the returning army," she went on. "What of you here?"

Sívendil lowered herself on her pallet. Redhriel, finished with rummaging in her chest, sat on her own bed and watched the russet-haired healer, and Idrin mirrored her actions.

"After the Black Gate opened and the battle began, we had no respite," Sívendil began and spoke of the many wounded flooding the treatment tents and the frenzy of activity that followed.

"The Halfling Peregrin was found under the body of a Troll," she said. "We had thought him dead, but there was life in him still and he has recovered well enough." The ghost of a smile flitted across the healer's rounded features. "They are resilient, these Halflings, though they do not seem it. The ones called Sam and Frodo have yet to awaken, however." She lapsed into silence. "Who would have believed that for nigh a year the fate of us all was in the hands of such unlikely creatures." She shook her head to herself, her mouth curling.

"Who, indeed," Idrin mused. She glanced towards the open tent-flap absently and, perceiving that the shadows of afternoon had lengthened, sprang to her feet. "I must get ready or Arvinion will be kept waiting." Hurrying to her chest, she gathered fresh clothes, towels and two small pouches and made her way to the tent she had bidden set up near the stream.

The small firepit was dug in its centre, surrounded by large stones, a pile of logs standing beside it. The bathtub was nearer the dark-fallow cloth-walls, along with the mat, short bench, pail and kettle she had had brought from Minas Tirith. Placing her load on the wooden seat, the young woman picked up the large kettle and made to go outside. She paused before the tent-flap, looking about, and as the seconds went by, the spark in her eye dimmed. She was no longer in the Guarded City where it was easy to find a servant eager to help her with her bath. Letting out a breath, she carried the kettle to the stream.

The trip back to the tent felt longer than it was, the weight of the full kettle causing Idrin to halt and let her arms relax briefly.

"Lady, let me help you!"

In a rush of skirts, the dark-haired girl was beside her as Idrin pushed through the tent-flap, and the firepit was quickly filled with wood.

Watching the maid-servant move the kettle to the flames, Idrin sighed and felt her lips twitch. "You did not come here to attend me but to help with the feast," she said finally.

The girl looked up. "Yet, I am your chambermaid, lady." She picked up the empty pail and went to the stream.

Idrin watched and walked to the bathtub once it was full, trailing her fingertips through the water. She rose to her feet. "You may go."

The girl turned away, drawing the tent-flap firmly closed as she left.

Idrin glanced at her dress: the moss-coloured riding habit was dusty. Suddenly she felt the linen fabric weighing down on her shoulders, and her hands went to her belt. Sunk into the heated water a few moments later, she looked at the boiling kettle resting firmly on the firepit-stones, grateful for the warmth on her exposed shoulders. She scrubbed vigorously at her skin with a rough towel and washed the dirt from her hair, the scent of sage and silky wormwood clinging to her.²

* * *

¹ ' _culumalda_ : a tree with hanging yellow blossoms (prob[ably] a laburnum) growing in Ithilien espec[ially] at Cormallen' (JRR Tolkien, _Unfinished Index to the Lord of the Rings_ ); evidently from the stem KUL-=golden-red ( _The History of Middle-earth: The Lost Road_ , Part 3)

² As soap is mentioned in Tolkien's works ( _'_ There are also towels, mats and soap.' [ _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 1, Chapter V]), it can be assumed that scented soaps were also developed by some of the peoples of Middle-earth, much like in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: 'By the tenth century, France was making excellent soaps with pleasing fragrances . . . England built up a strong soap industry during the Renaissance [and although] these soaps could be used directly on the scalp or hair, some people . . . created a more liquid mixture by adding more water' (Victoria Sherrow, _Encyclopedia of Hair_ ); 'Hard soaps appeared in the twelfth century. They were luxury articles . . . often with aromatic herbs' (Morris Bishop, _The Middle Ages_ ).


	15. Chapter 14

** Chapter  ** ** 14 **

Arvinion had almost reached the tent Idrin shared with Sívendil and Redhriel when the young woman emerged from it. She threaded her arm lightly through his and let him lead her further into the camp.

Her brothers' tent was away from the stream, almost at the edge of the greenwood and near fragrant bushes and green grass. A small firepit was before the entrance, and a cooking pot hung above the dry wood. Idrin looked about and then turned to her brother. "Damhir?"

"He has gone to fetch potatoes and leeks for our stew." Arvinion went inside the tent and came back holding a brace of coneys and a wooden board.

Idrin regarded the rabbits as her brother sat beside the firepit, taking out a knife. "We need more than that for a proper stew," she said. "Where are the cooks' tents?"

Arvinion looked up to meet his sister's gaze. "They are near the centre of the camp." He pointed towards the way they had come from with his knife. "The one with the provisions allotted us is the smaller green pavilion."

"I will go and see what I can find." Idrin turned on her heel and walked away.

The tent with the foodstuffs for the soldiers was easy to find – it and its bigger neighbour were like pinpricks of colour in the ring of tents in various hues of brown and almost-white that surrounded them. Idrin entered just as a man of Rohan stepped outside, carrying a basket. The young woman looked about: short wooden racks were set along the pavilion-walls, sacks and smaller bags, baskets and barrels occupied the rest of the space, and two makeshift chairs stood at the back.

One of the Gondorians standing in the centre of the tent caught her eye and she approached him. "Have you wine? And herbs, perhaps – rosemary and thyme?"

The man gazed at her, squinting slightly, his brow creasing, and blinked. "No," he replied slowly. "We have brought only beer; and the only herbs we have are fit for brewing tea."

The young woman sighed. "They will not do," she murmured, stepping back and turning from him.

The man stared at her retreating form and then finally looked away, shaking his head to himself.

As she retraced her footsteps to her brothers' tent, Idrin's gaze fell on the thickets and grasses beyond the wood, and she changed her course. Passing under the tall trees that bordered the greenwood, their hanging flowers a dull amber-red in the fading light, the young woman sat on her heels before a sprawling bush with long, slender grey-green leaves. She plucked a leaf and sniffed at it, then produced a dagger from the belt of her dress and began picking slim branches to cull. A while later she moved to a nearby copse of scraggly-looking vegetation, cutting several stems and adding them to those in her lap.

After a few moments she got to her feet and began making her way back to where Arvinion was sitting.

"There you are, sister!"

It was Damhir's voice that greeted her. He came striding towards her, beaming, and catching sight of her load, raised an eyebrow.

"What are those?" The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Rosemary and thyme for the stew,"¹ replied Idrin, her lips curving gently.

Damhir peered at her and then laughed, taking her free hand in his and kissing it lightly. "Come, the cookfire awaits."

When he moved to walk beside her, Idrin saw there was another man sitting next to Arvinion by the fire, his back to her, the dark-golden hair marking him as a Rider of Rohan. He turned towards them as she and Damhir approached, and then the young woman knew him.

"Éothain. I trust your leg is healing well?"

The Rider's eyes lit with recognition. "I can walk and ride," he answered, meeting the keen gaze fixed on him.

"Good." Idrin gave a small nod and went to sit beside Damhir.

Arvinion turned to her. "You wrote in your letter you were to stay in Minas Tirith."

"The healers and orderlies come back to the Houses from the last battle gave us respite," returned the young woman; "and as more help is needed here, the Chief Healer sent all he could spare." She shifted her attention to the basket near Damhir's feet, piled the remaining leeks there to one side and reached for the last potato.

"Your decision to become a healer… did your parents not object to it?"

The sound of Éothain's voice made her look up at him, and Idrin saw the Rider was gazing at her intently.

When a moment passed and she did not reply, the man went on, gesturing lightly with the knife he held: "What I mean to say is that women of high birth are not expected to work, and being a healer is not something as simple as being a herb-master or brewing draughts for the sick. It can be a strenuous and bloody occupation, and those born to nobility would be likely to label it an inappropriate and unrefined pastime for their daughters. In the Mark the women who have dedicated their life to healing are of lower birth – unmarried or widows."

"These hold true for Gondor, as well," said Idrin. "Many of those not exposed to labour and such grisly circumstances find they cannot bear the sight of mangled flesh and blood and infection; they prefer to learn the essentials of midwifery, the tending of light wounds and brewing of teas, those skills that will be of most use to them as wives and mothers." The young woman took out her dagger and set it to the potato she held.

"Father was not in favour of the notion when Idrin said she wished to work as a healer. But at length he recognised she was in earnest and relented." Arvinion stirred the contents of the cooking pot as he spoke, passed a leek from the basket to Éothain and picked another to clean.

"My aunt – it was she who raised me after Mother died – accepted my decision more readily," Idrin continued. "Mother herself did not seem to mind my following around the healers as a child while she was staying in the Houses of Healing." She drew the bowl of water near to rinse her hands before beginning to dice the potato over the pot. "When I was young, I once asked her why she tended our garden herself instead of having a gardener do it for her. She told me it gave her joy and made her feel useful, saying there was more to life than having people wait on you." The young woman looked up. "I should like to believe she would have approved of my becoming a healer."

Setting her blade beside her, Idrin peered into the cooking pot, added thyme and rosemary leaves, and turned to Damhir. "I do not suppose you have brought wine with you?"

Her brother rose and disappeared into the tent, emerging a few moments later. He offered Idrin the flask he held. "A golden vintage from Lamedon."

The young woman took it and poured a good measure over the jointed coneys, shifting closer to the pot as she stirred its contents.

"Gladhwen wrote she, Faervel and Orien will go to Minas Tirith within the week." Damhir sighed as he spoke and frowned. "I wish she would not travel in her condition. And the roads are not yet wholly safe."

"She is with child, brother, not ill," returned Arvinion. "The journey is less than a day's ride, and they will have an escort."

Damhir regarded him. "I would rather she waited in Forvarad."

"We have done little more than wait this past month." Idrin fixed her second brother with a level stare. "Should there be danger on the road and their escort fail, both Gladhwen and Faervel are capable of wielding a blade," she went on, her voice softening. "Warfare may be a man's business but daggers can be handled by women, also."

"Your sister has the right of it," spoke Éothain, casting Idrin a long glance; "you worry overmuch, Damhir."

Damhir let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. "Perhaps it is so," he conceded at last. He lingered near the fire for an instant, flexing his fingers, and then headed towards the tent, returning with bowls and cups and spoons.

They ate in silence, and when they finished, clearing away the used crockery, Arvinion filled their cups once more. Idrin shifted in her seat and the dagger forgotten at her side caught in her skirts. She set her cup down and fumbled with the cloth to disentangle the blade.

"Careful, sister."

The young woman did not look up at the sound of Damhir's voice, her brow furrowing as she inspected her dress. "The edges are almost dull," she replied, finally smoothing the fabric.

Across from her, Éothain watched as she produced a piece of cloth from the pouch at her belt and began passing it over the steel surface with care. He considered her movements for several moments.

"Mistress... does not your being a healer affect your wielding a blade?" he asked slowly at last.

Idrin paused and pondered his words. "I have not yet had reason to handle a dagger for causes other than culling herbs and simple knife-work," she answered, her voice trailing off into brief silence. "I should like to think that my hand will be steady if ever I have to use it differently." The young woman turned her gaze to the cloth she held, put it away, then returned her dagger to its sheath.

She glanced at the black sky and drank from her cup before placing it beside her. "I must go. There is much to be done on the morrow." She rose, and as she did so, Éothain got to his feet.

"The night is dark," he said. "Let me walk with you. My tent lies yonder, also."

Idrin regarded him for an instant and nodded. Feeling Arvinion and Damhir standing beside her, she turned to them.

"Rest well, sister."

Her brothers gazed at her and looked to where Éothain was waiting, their eyes following the retreating forms as the pair moved farther away.

Leaving the warmth of the bright flames behind them, the young woman and the Rider of Rohan walked in silence, past crackling fires and small companies of soldiers conversing quietly. When they reached the tents belonging to the healers, Éothain halted.

"Thank you for a fine meal and good company, Mistress."

Idrin met his gaze and a smile touched her lips. "Good-night, Éothain."

The Rider took a small step backwards, bowed his head in farewell and turned on his heel, disappearing into the camp.

* * *

¹ The latitude range of Gondor corresponds to that of the northern Mediterranean region: 'The action of [ _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ ] takes place in the North-west of "Middle-earth", equivalent in latitude to the coastlands of Europe and the north shores of the Mediterranean . . . [M]inas Tirith . . . is at about the latitude of Florence. The Mouths of Anduin and the ancient city of Pelargir are at about the latitude of ancient Troy' ( _The Letters of JRR Tolkien_ , Letter #294).  
As all vegetation of Ithilien described in _The Lord of the Rings_ is indeed native to the Mediterranean ('. . . broom and cornel . . . pine-trees . . .  heather . . . fir and cedar and cypress . . . larches . . . tamarisk and pungent terebinth . . . olive [and] bay . . . junipers and myrtles . . . thymes that grew in bushes . . . sages of many kinds . . . marjorams . . . parsleys . . . saxifrages and stonecrops . . . [p]rimeroles and anemones . . . asphodel and many lily-flowers . . . rose-brambles; iris-swords . . . fern . . . ilex and dark box-woods . . . hoary ash-trees, and giant oaks . . . celandine . . . woodland hyacinths . . . beech[es] . . .' [ _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ , Book 4, Chapters IV, V & VII; Book 6, Chapter IV]), more Mediterranean plant-species are expected to grow there, including rosemary (TG Tutin et al., _Flora Europaea_ ).


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter** **15**

When Idrin woke the next morning, the grey twilight had not yet given way to dawn. She washed, dressed in the pearl-white and steel-blue garb of the healers and followed Sívendil outside.

They found Redhriel busying herself at a makeshift table and sat to break their fast on dried fruits and cheese and crisp-bread.

Sívendil’s gaze wandered to the midst of the green field of Cormallen and the grand pavilions being erected there. A press of people came and went without pause, carrying poles and unloading wagons.  
  
"It seems the feast will not be lacking," said the young woman, watching the incessant milling about.

"Indeed, it will not," replied Idrin. "The wains came nicely provisioned. It will be as proper a banquet as can be."

With a last glance towards the preparations, the healers returned to their meal. By the time they finished, a tinge of pink had brightened the eastern sky.

“Come, I will show you where you will be working,” said Sívendil when they had cleared the table.

The two women followed her a little farther into the camp, towards two large tents that dominated the landscape.

“The men housed here are not at risk of losing their lives; they chiefly need time to regain their strength and adjust to their new circumstances,” Sívendil went on as they walked. “We sent all we could to Minas Tirith, but the Houses are now full. The Warden shall send word as soon as more can be accommodated there.”

She directed Redhriel into the first tent and halted before the second one, drawing the flap aside and waiting.

Idrin ducked inside and almost started at the sudden change in air and brightness. The light was muted and there was a sense of staleness and a scent of strong spirits about. The rows upon rows of cots were occupied by men with missing limbs, and men with bandages wrapped around chest or belly, around arms or legs, or covering eyes like blindfolds.

The young woman stood at the entrance for a moment, her wandering gaze settling on the healers and orderlies at the far end, and finally took another step inside, feeling Sívendil walk in behind her.

They were kept occupied until some time after mid-morning. Then, returning to their tent for a light meal, Idrin studied her attire with a critical frown. “I should like a bath before the feast,” she said, her nose twitching as she brushed impatiently at the fabric of her kirtle. When she lifted her eyes, she saw Ýriel and Sívendil were both gazing at her, neither speaking. “But I suppose a good wash will have to do at this hour,” she continued with a sigh.

She crouched before the small chest holding her belongings, rummaging through it for several minutes before finally picking out a lavender-grey gown and carrying it, along with a bundle of other garments, to the tent where the bathtub was housed.

When she joined Sívendil and Redhriel again, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, and it was noon when a lone trumpet was sounded in summons.

The cleared space in the field of Cormallen was soon teeming with soldiers, the bright midday light glinting off burnished mail and naked spearheads. Healers and orderlies, cooks and serving-maids, minstrels and a couple of travelling merchants made up the rest of the crowd, and a low murmur rippled through the assembled press. The droning hum died away quickly as a white-robed, tall man stepped into the clearing, and the attention of all was turned to him and the two smaller figures trailing in his wake. Amidst the drawing of many swords and the shaking of spears, the sounding of trumpets and the cries of praise that went up at that moment, Idrin caught her first glimpse of the Ring-bearers.

They were less in height than Merry and Pippin, the top of their curly, dark heads reaching a little above Mithrandir's elbow. Contrasting their worn clothes, tattered from many hardships, their eyes were bright and wide as they gazed upon the gathered host, and their faces were flushed red. For a brief instant their feet seemed to falter and their limbs stiffen, yet they promptly moved forward. The crowd parted for them and gradually fell silent again as they neared the three high-seats standing prominent amid the sea of people.

Idrin turned her gaze away and looked over the crowd, pausing when she found the familiar forms of Damhir and Arvinion. She shifted her attention to her companions and excused herself.

The new King of Gondor had risen and greeted the Halflings by the time the young woman reached her brothers, and she studied him. He bore little resemblance to the battle-worn, tired man she had met in Faramir's sick-room in the Houses of Healing nearly a month before. He now looked taller, younger and less grim, beaming almost.

"If the illuminations of old hold truth, there is something of the Númenórean kings about him," said Damhir in a hushed tone, watching as the Halflings were set upon the throne and the King Elessar turned to the host. On Idrin’s right, Arvinion murmured his agreement, his voice drowning in the cheers that went up once more.

Then, the flowing sounds of a minstrel's lute rose into song, and the crowd was hushed.

 _Mi 'athrod vorn_  
_Dorthast în ernediaid,_  
_dolen od bain_  
_nu ered hithui ..._ *  
  
Thus the bard began, casting in verse the awakening of Isildur's Bane and exalting the deeds of the courageous Hobbits, in Elvish speech and Common Tongue. The hour passed swiftly, and when the singer drew the last note from his lute, the Sun had already begun her westward journey.

The applauding host began to disperse, heading to the feast-tents, and following her brothers, Idrin was glad for the coolness within the great pavilion. She came to a halt not far from the entrance and stayed to greet a small company of healers while Arvinion and Damhir went on. Her conversation with the men was interrupted when, some time later, the elder of her brothers approached, saying that Elessar wished to speak with her. She went with him, the healers behind her watching them for a moment.

The King of Gondor was standing near the far end of the pavilion, conversing with Prince Imrahil and Damhir. He turned his eyes to her and there was a twinkle in them as he greeted her. “I hear you have spent much time with Faramir in the Houses of Healing, lady. Pray, how fares he? And the Lady Éowyn?”

“He has recovered, lord,” replied Idrin; “and the Lady Éowyn also, both in body and spirit.”

Elessar smiled faintly. “It is a great joy to hear that, indeed.”

The King of Rohan drew his attention then, and the young woman found herself looking about her. She caught sight of two child-like figures beside a bench, one clad in livery of green and white, and the other in sable and silver, and made towards them.

“You look well, Master Peregrin.”

The Halflings broke off their quiet talk together, and Pippin beamed at her. “I do feel well. I thought that Troll had done away with me.” He paused, shuddering, but smiled again quickly. “Luckily, Mistress Sívendil saved my hide. And she was kind enough to scrounge me up some mushrooms.”

Idrin laughed. “And have you met with your kinsmen yet? I expect they will be quite glad to see you here,” she said at last.

“No, not yet,” answered Merry. “We shall surprise them later – we are to be cup-bearers to the Kings.”

As the open tent-flaps were drawn closed when the grand pavilion filled with people, Idrin took her place on the bench beside her brothers and watched serving-maids weave their way between the long trestle tables, bearing trays of meat pies, eels fried in lemongrass, salads of rocket and leaf-chicory and pine-nuts, fresh bread-buns, spiced wine and ale. Arvinion and Damhir’s comrades-in-arms who sat with them enquired after her work and the restoration of Minas Tirith and spoke of their families and the homes they had left behind. Then, after the meal ended, the men’s conversation turned to the realms of Gondor and Rohan and the differences in the structure of their military forces, and slowly the young woman found her interest dwindling.

She shifted her attention to the minstrels making sweet music and singing, and after some time sought the company of the other healers. She sat with them for a while, finally rising and taking her leave.

The night was dark and cool as Idrin stepped outside the pavilion, and she brought a hand to her back, wincing at the pressure before letting her eyes drift closed for an instant.

“Tired of the babbling crowd?”

The deep voice next to her made the young woman jump. A dark splotch soaked the ground where her feet had been as the wine in her half-full cup was disturbed, and a red trickle grazed her fingers.

Idrin flung the drops from her hand and turned to face Éothain. “Yes,” she replied. “And it seems the wine does not agree with me tonight.” She looked down at her fingers, her lip twisting as she shook them again.

Beside her, the Rider of Rohan lifted an eyebrow and smothered an amused grin, producing a handkerchief from his pocket.

Flushing, the young woman took it and dabbed at the red driblets.

“Gondor does make fine vintages,” said Éothain in an absent, low voice, almost to himself. Then, looking at Idrin’s face, he blinked and shook his head. ”May I walk with you to your tent?”

“I would welcome the company.” Quickly the young woman retreated to the pavilion behind her and, setting her cup in a serving-girl's tray, joined the Rider promptly.

They walked in silence at first, taking in their darkened surroundings and the faint scent from the trees lining the field, the weak breeze cooling their faces, before Éothain spoke: “The Marshal Elfhelm sent word that those fallen on the Pelennor were to be named, yet that was many days ago.” He turned to gaze at her.

“That has been done, indeed,” replied Idrin. “It was a difficult undertaking, but all the slain and those we lost in the Houses were named, so their families will not be left to wonder about their fates. They are buried by the roots of Mindolluin, near the southern wall of the City. ‘Tis foreign soil for your kinsmen, but they will not be forgotten.” The young woman drew a breath. “And the rest of the Pelennor has been cleansed, also,” she went on. “After the armies marched East, the Marshal Elfhelm sent whomever he could spare to help with that task. The remains of the burnt farmsteads were cleared and anything that could be salvaged was retrieved.”

Looking at Éothain beside her, Idrin suddenly halted. “You are limping.”

Checking his footsteps, the Rider returned the stare. “I have done all I could to allow for proper mending,” he said.

“Did you rest when your leg pained you?”

“There were times when I could not.” Éothain huffed and began walking again. “It is barely perceptible. I can walk and ride,” he continued curtly.

Idrin peered at the leg she knew he favoured. “Had you taken more care, though...” Her words trailed off and she shook her head. “But what is done cannot be undone.”

The Rider glanced at her. “You worry overmuch.”

“Concern for one’s welfare is part of being a healer.”

Éothain was silent for a spell. “I heard tell that Minas Tirith has never been taken,” he said finally.

“The City Wall has never been breached,” replied Idrin and after a moment added: “I suppose we wished to entertain the thought that the Great Gate could not be broken, either; those minutes when that battering ram struck were horrific.” She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to ward off a chill. “They say it was imbued with sorcery to bring ruin.” The golden trees near the stream to where their slow feet were leading them whispered as a fresh breath of wind blew through their leaves, and the young woman let out a short, mirthless chuckle. “If Thaldor were to see that ruin now...” she said softly; “he used to say that on both the Wall and Gate lay magic that made them indomitable.”

“Thaldor was a good friend, I gather?”

Éothain’s enquiry made Idrin blink, and she let her arms fall to her sides. “He was the man I was betrothed to, killed during Mordor’s attack on Osgiliath last summer.”

The Rider stared, and then his eyes darted to her bare hands before returning to her face. “My sympathies.”

She inclined her head, taking a moment before speaking. “Thaldor was my dearest friend. He was in the company that held the last bridge across the Anduin. Boromir said the arrow found his heart; he did not suffer a slow death. There is a small measure of comfort in that, at least.”

The young woman fell quiet, shifting her attention to their surroundings and the blue-hued tents that had loomed beside them, and took a seat by the cold firepit outside the one she shared with Redhriel and Sívendil. She drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and looked up at the dark sky.

Éothain peered at her, taking in her calm countenance. No doubt the healer had long made her peace with her betrothed’s passing. He followed the young woman’s gaze to the many white pinpricks dotting the firmament above. “The ancestors of the Eorlingas who lived in the vales of the Anduin believed that when a great warrior fell in battle, a star fell from the sky.”¹

Idrin smiled wanly. “Thaldor would have liked that notion. I admit I have never before read in lore of such beliefs – in Gondor tales speak rather of the creation of the stars.”

“Tell me.”

Éothain came to sit by her, and the young woman gazed at the heavens once more. She raised her hand and pointed at a bright, sprawling formation with a forefinger. “The Elves call it _Valacirca_ , the sickle of the Valar,” she began, “but in Gondor we call it _Grewil_ , the Female Bear.

“It is said that the first Men who awoke in the east of Middle-earth believed she was a spirit, a seldom-seen presence wandering the forests of that land, sometimes in the form of a tall and fair woman, and sometimes in the likeness of a great bear. The name they had for her in their tongue is forgotten, but in the ancient texts that survived the fall of Númenor she is called Urgîth. She and another bright spirit who walked the east regions, named Tûdon in the old annals, were ever wary of the servants of the Enemy who began to roam the lands there, yet for a time they had no cause for action.

“One of the spies of Morgoth, however, began before long to mingle with the people, striking fear into their hearts and sowing dissonance among them: a most cunning spirit and master of guile, named Nâluzîr. Him Urgîth and Tûdon tried to drive away, out of the domain of Men and where he could work no evil. Their conflict was great and at last it led them from the lands of mortal peoples into the heavens, into that region called Ilmen where the stars are, and there they have stayed ever since, locked forever in endless chase.

"Nâluzîr took the shape of a great serpent, now named Gwanlug; Urgîth became the bear Grewil; and shielding her is Tûdon, who is now Brogdir.”²

Idrin had once again raised her hand to point out the star-formations, and, when she lowered her gaze, took in the darkness engulfing her and Éothain, and the empty firepit before them.

The Rider simply observed her for a few seconds. “That is a beautiful story. Different from any told in the Mark. Many of our tales tend to be less refined, I suppose.”

“This is one of my favourites, even though it is not very cheerful,” said Idrin fondly. “I remember it was my mother who first told it to me.”

Stirring figures caught her eye, and she discerned a small group of people walking among the tents some distance away. “It is growing late.” The young woman sighed and got to her feet, her hands moving to smooth her dress. “But I should like to hear tales of your country.”

The Rider rose with her. “Tomorrow, then, perhaps, if time allows.”

“Yes, tomorrow,” agreed Idrin with a faint smile.

Éothain gave her a small bow. “Rest well.” He held her gaze for a brief instant, watching as she ducked into the tent.

* * *

* _In a dark cave_  
_It dwelt years unnumbered,_  
_hidden from all_  
_beneath misty mountains …_  
My first piece of poetry in Gondorian Sindarin.  
—

¹ The belief of the _Éothéod_ that falling stars mark the death of great warriors is my creation, inspired by a line in _The Fall of Gil-galad_ : ‘. . . into darkness fell his star . . .’ ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s,_ Book 1, Chapter XI).

² The tale of the constellation of Grewil is of my own invention, prompted by passages in _The Silmarillion_ : '[I]n Middle-earth the Maiar have seldom appeared in form visible to Elves and Men.' ( _The Silmarillion_ , Valaquenta); '[W]hen Men awoke in Hildórien at the rising of the Sun the spies of Morgoth were watchful, and tidings were soon brought to him . . . To corrupt or destroy whatsoever arose new and fair was ever the chief desire of Morgoth . . .' ( _The Silmarillion_ , Quenta Silmarillion, Chapter 17).


	17. Chapter 16

**PART III:  
** **WEAVING PEACE**  
**—**

**Chapter 16**

The temporary barrier that served as a crude gate to the City Wall of Minas Tirith loomed before them just as the sky began to darken. Passing within and following the winding main street to the upper levels, Idrin felt a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth: the Steward's House and her chamber awaited above. Having spent a little over two weeks at Cormallen, she could not deny that the prospect of rest and the comfort of indoors were quite inviting, even when pressing tasks in the Citadel would claim much of her attention.

While wounded men and healers made their way to the Houses of Healing upon reaching the sixth level, the young woman gave her gelding's reins to a waiting stablehand, spoke a few words to one of the soldiers flanking the wains, and turned to ascend the sloping tunnel that led to the seventh circle.

Her chambermaid, who had preceded her to the Steward's House, was quick to draw a hot bath, and after a long soak, Idrin descended to the ground floor. She found Faramir in the study that had been Denethor's, poring over sheets of parchment in the light of an oil-lamp and a brazier set between the desk and the closed window.

He looked up when she walked in, and his eyes glinted. "Idrin, come, sit."

The young woman drew a chair from beside the great bookcase.

"How are things in Ithilien?" asked Faramir as she settled near him.

"The soldiers who went into Mordor have returned; they have scourged the north of the Black Land," replied Idrin. "The wounded have been healed, and the King Elessar means to return to Minas Tirith when the month is done." She peered at him. "Is all here in order?"

"It is," answered Faramir. "The last wagonload of provisions came today from Ringló Vale. I have had the King's House opened after I received your letter yesterday, and Raenith and her maids have begun work there. Laidhril and her domestics are tidying the other lodgings in the Citadel; and aunt Rillien, Elphir and Lothíriel should arrive by midday tomorrow."

The young woman frowned. "The Lady Ivriniel?"

"She took a chill and has yet to recover," answered Faramir. "Alphros was taken ill, as well, so Castiel will remain in Dol Amroth also."¹ He paused for a moment. "You will oversee the preparations?"

Idrin gave a nod. "I will."

The furrow creasing the Steward's brow smoothed and his eyes fell on the empty plate and cup on his desk. He looked up quickly. "Have you eaten? Shall I send for supper?"

The young woman shook her head. "No," she said. "I have a mind to go to the townhouse and see my sisters-by-marriage."

A small smile touched Faramir's lips. "Orien was rather impressed by the Lady Éowyn."

Idrin laughed. "I do not doubt it." Meeting a woman with such skill in battle, one who had slain so great a foe, would indeed have stricken awe in her brother's young daughter who loved tales of valour so much. "The Lady Éowyn's arm has mended?"

"It has, yet she dwells in the Houses of Healing still," returned Faramir. "Herb-lore has becharmed her in earnest, and I hear the herb-master is delighted to share his knowledge."

The young woman chuckled and, after a moment of quiet, rose to her feet. "I ought to go before it grows truly dark."

Outside, the lamps were lit, brightening the indigo-blue dusk as the last streak of dull orange faded from the skyline. The weather was cool, but when she opened the door to the townhouse, she smelled logs burning and felt the warmth of fire.

Damhir's wife was sitting in the drawing room, one hand on her round belly as she watched Arvinion's young daughter dragging a thick piece of string on the floor for a small cat to chase. The raven-haired girl beamed up at Idrin when she caught sight of her.

"Aunt Idrin!"

"Hello, little one." The young woman greeted her niece fondly before turning to Gladhwen. "How are you, sister?"

The older woman shifted the cushion behind her back and rested her hand on her belly once more. "The babe has grown stronger since last we wrote to one another."

A faint rustle and a quickly stifled noise drew their attention, and they saw Orien sucking on a fingertip. She narrowed her eyes at the half-grown cat darting a paw at the string abandoned beside her and reached to it. The animal protested as it was brought on its side but was soon purring contentedly when the girl began to stroke its short fur.

Idrin's lips curled, and she went to crouch by the pair, scratching the tan-and-white tabby under the chin. "He has grown more affectionate after his visit to Lebennin, it seems."

The cat got to his feet, rubbing against her legs and leaning into her hand as she stroked his head. When her hands stilled for a moment, he leapt into her lap. Orien giggled.

"My lady Idrin, welcome. Will you be staying for supper?"

The greeting came from the grey-haired housekeeper, entering the drawing room moments after Arvinion's wife.  
  
Idrin gathered the cat in her arms and rose. "Yes, Nathes, I will."

They sat at table soon afterward, now speaking of the babe Gladhwen was carrying, now of the journey from Lossarnach and of the towns that had been spared the cruelty of war and of the crops the farmers hoped to grow. By the end of the meal their conversation had turned to fallen acquaintances and to the coastal lands that had been raided by the Corsairs.

“It is said the men of Umbar expected to encounter less resistance at Dol Amroth, that they reckoned the Prince’s son who had stayed behind was young and inexperienced in warfare,” said Faervel.

Idrin’s eyes gleamed. “They were proven wrong. Elphir is as good at laying plans as his father, and his skill at sea is great indeed.”

Gladhwen cast a glance at Orien who was listening to their talk eagerly, the last bites of food in her plate forgotten. “They come tomorrow, do they not?” asked Damhir’s wife.

Idrin turned to her. “Yes, they should arrive by noon,” she replied.

And so, shortly after the sun had reached its highest point in the sky the following day, a servant came up to the Citadel to inform the Steward that the Prince Imrahil’s ship from Dol Amroth had docked in the Harlond. Allowing for some time to let the Princess Rillien and her children rest a while after their voyage, Idrin sent a man to their townhouse in the mid-afternoon with an invitation to tea and supper.

The three of them arrived at the Steward’s House an hour before sundown and were met by Faramir and Idrin in the drawing room near the dining hall.

“Aunt, welcome.” The Steward of Gondor strode forward to greet Rillien, a grin on his face.

“Well met, dearest,” returned the raven-haired woman, beaming, clasping his hands as he kissed her cheek lightly. “It has been too long.”

Behind Faramir Idrin had walked towards Elphir and Lothíriel, smiling, and the Prince Imrahil’s heir took her proffered hand gently. “Idrin, ‘tis a pleasure to find you in good health.”

Beside him Lothíriel’s face was radiant, her almond-shaped grey eyes bright.

* * *

It was soon after break of dawn four days later when all bells in the High City began to ring. Their tolling penetrated even the thick walls of the King's House in the Citadel, and speaking with the cook in the kitchen, Idrin paused for an instant and listened. Then, with a last word, she turned and went from the room. She halted in the entrance hall, rearranging her hair and smoothing her dress, and hurried outside.

Movement coming from the Steward's House caught her eye as she was crossing the Court of the Fountain, and she checked her footsteps at the sound of Faramir's voice. The Prince Imrahil's wife went with him, tall and graceful.

"Good-morrow, dear." The Princess's cool grey eyes found Idrin, and she greeted her gently.

"Good-morning, Lady Rillien," returned the young woman, her gaze shifting to the Steward's House once more. The Prince Imrahil's firstborn son followed the others slowly, escorting his sister in the absence of his wife. Idrin acknowledged them as they approached, and all made their way to the lower levels, two guards bringing up the rear.

Beyond the gate to the fifth circle, four men in the livery of the tree-and-stars awaited, bearing a casket of black wood between them, and followed the small procession. The tall Lord Húrin of the Keys was by the barrier that led out to the Pelennor Fields, with several men-at-arms about him. They moved the heavy structure to let them pass, and then they were out on the open plain, and a host of people was already arrayed on either side of the fallen Gate. The Marshal Elfhelm and the Lady Éowyn stood apart from the crowd, and the company from the Citadel made towards them.

Faramir greeted the pair, and then turned to Éowyn. "You have been acquainted with my uncle's family, dear lady, but have yet to meet my cousin Idrin of whom I have also spoken."

The White Lady of Rohan peered at the young woman before her for a long moment. "We crossed paths but briefly before; I recall now," she said slowly. "In the Houses of Healing, and later in the stables, when I went to exercise Windfola, though I did not know who you were and did not recognise you then."

Idrin made to reply, but a loud child's voice cut her off.

"They are coming!"

The young woman looked to the East and saw the glint of sunlight on helm and spearhead and the cloud of dust kicked up by many feet. The host advanced and all talk ceased.

Thus the army of the West returned to Minas Tirith, and Aragorn Elessar was crowned king before the Great Wall. Amid music and singing he was escorted into the Guarded City, the press of people all about boisterous in their rejoicing.

Idrin saw the Princess Rillien, Elphir and Lothíriel still waiting where they stood, even after Faramir had spoken a few quiet words into his aunt's ear and gone with the king. The women's eyes gleamed as the Prince of Dol Amroth came striding towards them, his younger sons at his heels. Not far from them, Idrin spied Éowyn embracing her brother, and the young woman then shifted her gaze to the host, her eyes searching. Soon joined by her sisters-by-marriage, she found her brothers and finally followed the sea of people into the City and up the winding streets.

The crowd dispersed upon nearing the Citadel. Soon about the new king remained no more than four dozen individuals: those who had set out with him from Rivendell, and the sons of Elrond, Faramir and Éomer and Éowyn, Idrin's own kin, Imrahil and his family, Húrin the Tall and the host's chief Captains, and great lords from every corner of Gondor. Elessar sat on his throne, and man-servants brought refreshments, and when the Hall quieted, the Gondorians made ready to be presented to the King. The sun was already well above the mountains by that moment, and thus Idrin took her leave, making for the Steward's House to change her garb before descending to the sixth circle and the Houses of Healing.

When she returned to the Citadel, it was past evenfall and a blanket of darkness swathed the City. The young woman's gaze drifted from the lodgings of the Steward to the King's House, and after a brief pause she set off towards the latter.

She found the housekeeper in the passage that led to the kitchen. "Is all well, Raenith? Have all settled in comfortably?"

The wiry woman clasped her hands lightly. "They have," she answered. "The King Elessar presently sits at supper with the Lord Faramir, Prince Imrahil, King Éomer and Lord Húrin; and the Lady Éowyn has gone to visit with the Princess Rillien and Miss Lothíriel at their townhouse."²

Idrin gave a short absent nod. "It is a pity that there are no rooms on the ground floor for the Halflings – I have heard they prefer such," she said; "and the Elves would have liked a view of the garden of the King's House."

Raenith looked at her for a long moment, silent. "You shouldn't burden yourself with these matters, lady," she spoke at last; "now the King is returned, he can see to the affairs of his house himself."

The young woman set back her shoulders, her lips pressing into a thin line for the most fleeting instant. "Since everything seems to be to the King's and his guests' satisfaction, I leave you to your work, Mistress Raenith." She turned on her heel sharply and walked away, while the housekeeper continued down the passage.

* * *

The hour after noon the following day found Idrin leaving the Houses of Healing and ascending the tunnel to the seventh circle. After a short stop at the Steward's House, the young woman made her way to the Citadel's library, looking about at the handful of domestics as she entered. The one nearest to her murmured a greeting when she walked farther within, but Idrin's eye fixed on the two familiar figures sorting books at a long table, their heads, raven and golden, close together.

"Would you not rather be outside in the sunlight?"

The women turned.

"There is not much more to be done, now that the bookcases have already been wiped and all wood is cleaned and polished, and the candleholders are burnished and the floors are scrubbed." Lothíriel smiled. "The books have been dusted and treated for red-rot; the only thing remaining is to replace them on their shelves. It is better to occupy time by helping here than by sitting idly at embroidery."

Éowyn put a light hand on a thick tome beside her. "For myself, I have been sitting idle for far too long," she said. She glanced down at the leather-bound volume beneath her fingers and her countenance softened. "You have a beautiful selection of books here."

Idrin observed the dark cover with its silvery Elvish script near the top. "You speak Sindarin?" Her voice held wonder and she felt her eyebrows lift.

Éowyn met her gaze. "I was taught it by my mother as a child, but I do not speak it well," she replied. "It has been many years since I had cause to practise the Elven-tongue, though I can understand the written word better than speech." She picked up the book, along with a pair of others, and moved from the table, studying the single letters borne on the bookcases behind her and the numbers on each shelf before setting the tomes in their assigned place.

Idrin mirrored her action, peering at books and replacing them on their shelves, but soon glanced at the White Lady again. "Boromir once told me that your people do not write books."

Éowyn paused in her work. "We are not given to recording lore in tomes as other peoples are, that is true. There are no libraries in the Mark such as you have here. The only notable collections of books are in the King's house in Edoras and in the Lord's house in Aldburg,³ and many of those volumes were brought there by my grandmother Morwen. Composing long pieces of written word has never been part of our culture. Most of the common folk cannot read or write, and thus knowledge and wisdom are passed on to the younger generations chiefly in song and tale."

Lothíriel regarded the White Lady of Rohan briefly. "'Tis truly a great achievement to preserve a whole peoples' history and tradition thus," she said.

Near her, Idrin hummed softly to herself, absently picking up a book from the table.

"Should you not be resting?"

The hint of sudden reproof in Lothíriel's tone made her look up. Prince Imrahil's daughter was staring at her.

"These past few days you have been dividing your time between the Houses of Healing and almost every building in the Citadel," she went on. "You need not oversee all, you know."

Idrin let out a sharp breath. "I have spent more than fifteen years helping my aunt run the household, giving instructions to cooks and man-servants and maids, seeing to preparations for feasts and arranging housing for guests; this is my responsibility."

Lothíriel's lips twitched. "A new librarian will come tomorrow, and now the King Elessar is here, your duties will be made lighter," she said.

Idrin gazed at the younger woman without speaking and gave her head a weak shake, sighing. "Seeing to the everyday running of the Citadel has been my task for so long…" She tapped a finger against the table, the repeated sound chafing. "It will take some time to become accustomed to the changes that will come."

The sound of stumbling feet made her turn abruptly. Nearby, a maid-servant regained her balance hastily, clutching an armful of yellowed rolls of parchment to her chest, her face colouring.

Idrin's eyes flashed and her nostril flared. "Be careful, Merilwen. Some of these scrolls are hundreds of years old."

Lothíriel and Éowyn stilled their fingers and stared at their companion, but across from them, the curly-haired girl's blush deepened at the sharp voice, and she dropped her gaze. Gingerly, she rearranged her load and walked slowly towards a bookcase beside the eastern window.

As the hushed chatter of the domestics working in the library quieted into silence, Idrin exhaled and turned from the girl, almost meeting Éowyn's gaze before the White Lady looked beyond her. She followed her line of sight and saw Éothain standing a few feet away, his eyebrows drawn together into a slight frown.

His features smoothed after a moment, and he straightened his posture. "Good-afternoon, Lady Idrin, Miss Lothíriel, cousin."

Éowyn looked at him with amusement. "Éothain, what brings you here?"

He turned to Idrin. "One of the healers at the Houses of Healing told me I would find you in this library."

The young woman regarded him. "I recall my brothers made mention of showing you the City, did they not?"

"They did, but I do not wish to intrude upon the time spent with their families," answered Éothain. "I've naught to do now, so I thought I might find other employment and help here." He looked around at the heavy bookcases.

"If that is your wish, certainly," returned Idrin. "And perhaps later we can walk about the city."

"Go now," said Lothíriel. "We've plenty of help at present and shall be done in a couple of hours or so."

Idrin hesitated and then let out a small breath, her lips curling upwards. "Alright." She turned to Éothain. "Give me but a few moments to put these away and then we can be on our way." Glancing down at the books in front of her, she began carrying them to the bookcases, pausing briefly to consider their titles before placing them on the shelves. Her gaze lingered on the covers of the last volumes on the table and then slowly shifted to the topmost shelf of the nearest case. An instant of silent study later, the young woman's eyes found the tall ladder propped against the wood. "There." She lowered her gaze to the books once more but did not touch them, looking up at Lothíriel and Éowyn instead. "I shall come later, for a final circuit."

The Prince Imrahil's daughter sighed, shaking her head to herself and grinning faintly. "You need not."

Idrin offered a cursory upturn of lips and turned on her heel.

* * *

¹ The wife of Prince Imrahil and the wife of Elphir do not play part in Tolkien's legendarium; naming them _Rillien_ and _Castiel_ respectively is of my creation.

² JRR Tolkien adheres to the original definitions of peerage titles and forms of address in his works: one is not named a _prince_ simply because he is a king's son, or a _lord_ because his parents are people of high rank. The earliest interpretations of such appellations are more strictly defined, and my detailed study on the subject can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827498).

³ Meduseld was a building used for meetings and entertainments, not the place where the royal family of Rohan lived: 'Théoden probably had [no private “chamber” in the Golden Hall], unless he had a sleeping "bower" in a separate small "outhouse" [i.e., outside Meduseld]. He received guests or emissaries, seated on the dais in his royal hall.' ( _The Letters of JRR Tolkien_ , Letter #210).  
The word ‘house’, used once in the narrative to refer to Meduseld (‘At the far end of the house . . . was a dais with three steps . . .’ [ _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ , Book 3, Chapter VI]), is in this case meant to indicate ‘a building in which people meet for a particular activity’ ( _Oxford Dictionary_ ).


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter** **17**

The day outside had grown cooler. Catching a glimpse of Éothain beside her as they walked, the young woman suddenly slowed her footsteps.

"You are still limping." A faint crease appeared momentarily above the bridge of her nose at the sight of his favouring his right leg slightly.

The Rider looked at her. "It does not hinder me, so I barely take note of it any more." He paused. "Unlike my father and his injury," he added. "A fall from his destrier five years past shattered his thigh-bone, and it did not knit properly, though that was in great part his fault. He cannot walk without the support of a stick."

"That must be an awful thing, for a Rider," said Idrin slowly, her voice low.

"He had no choice but to grow accustomed to it," returned Éothain, "although I wager it will bother him all the more now."

The young woman peered at him. "How so?"

"My father is the younger brother of Éomer's father. With Éomer made king, the rule of Aldburg will pass to him, being the closest male relative on the line of Eofor from whom we are descended," said Éothain.1 "Even when he served as a Rider, he would ever take a personal interest in his men, helping those in need and trying to provide for their widows and families when battle claimed them, visiting with the wounded and riding out himself to see to all those matters whenever he could. I know he would fain do so again when he accedes to lordship – ride out to mingle with the townspeople and better acquaint himself with their situation – yet that old injury to his leg prevents him from even mounting a horse. He dislikes this limited intimate contact, feeling thus distant from those under his care. And now he shall have the charge of a whole town..." The Rider's voice trailed off and after a momentary silence, he shook his head. "Where shall we go?" He turned to the woman beside him.

Idrin blinked at his quick change of thought and regarded him. "There is not much of interest to see in the Citadel, apart from the library, and I gather a visit to the jeweller's or the goldsmith's on the sixth level would be of little curiosity to you." She took a moment to think, and then her lip twitched. "Come."

She led the way to the tunnel that sloped down to the sixth circle, walking on to the gate that would lead them to the fifth level of the city. The sounds around them changed as they descended, shifting from the quiet that surrounded the Houses of Healing to the laughter of playing children in the circle below.

"Does no-one live here?"

They had turned northward towards the vast bastion, and Éothain's voice made Idrin look at him. He was peering at a great house fronting the main street to their left, its windows shut and yard untended, the inscription carved over the wide doorway half-worn by the passage of many years.

"Ever since I can recall, it has been empty," replied the young woman, looking at the dirty stone closely; "and even my grandfather could not remember people ever living in it, so my aunt said. It is thought that the family who dwelt here perished of the Great Plague more than a thousand years ago, like so many others, and no-one has claimed the house since."

Idrin gazed at the old dwelling for a moment longer and began walking again. They had not gone far beyond the north side of the pier of rock that cut through the circles of the City when she stopped. The building she was peering at was of modest size, flanked by a two-storied house on one side and an empty courtyard on the other. A climbing wisteria covered much of its front, the vibrant colours lending life to the white stone. The blue door facing the main street was closed, but the window-shutter opened upward, supported by two posts that converted it into an awning, to reveal a thickly glazed pane. Behind it, a long table displayed vases and ornate bowls and little animals all made from plain and coloured glass. Outside, the wooden signboard hanging beside the door marked the place as a glassblower's shop.

The young woman looked inside with a tender expression on her face. "When I was little I used to come here often whenever we visited the City," she said. "I would stay here, staring at all the baubles made from tinted glass. Sometimes, the shop-keeper would let me watch while he worked at his furnace, and I remember thinking how fascinating it was, to be able to create glass from sand and shape that molten mass into such designs."

Éothain took in the fond countenance of the young woman beside him, the glimmer in her eyes as she spoke. He shifted his attention to the shop-window briefly and looked at her again. "Those little critters are exceptionally fashioned indeed," he said. "Glass-makers in Rohan aren't given to such practices. Such fragile things are of no practical use."

"That is what most people in Gondor think, as well," returned Idrin. "Glass animals are only made in Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth." She paused, considering the ornaments. "Still, they are beautiful." She turned away and started forward in silence, towards the gate set in the city's fifth wall.

Descending to the fourth circle, they first passed by the guesthouse built hard beside the tall stone enclosure. The sound of many voices and music drifted out of open windows on ground floor and upper storeys. Like the guesthouse, tavern, and inn on the first, third and fourth levels of Minas Tirith, the establishment was overflowing with flaxen-haired and dark-headed soldiers.

With the women and children and elderly citizens come back to the city, and the army returned, and the flock of people arrived to witness the crowning of the King, the Tower of Guard had swelled with noise and movement. Many an empty house had been opened and cleaned, and previously still courtyards now rang with sound. Not a box in the stables on the sixth level was left unoccupied, and any others that could be found throughout the city were full as well. Horse-paddocks were built just outside the walls, nearer the mountain where grass still grew.

"I believe I have never seen so many people in the streets before," said Idrin. She looked about as the guesthouse dwindled in the distance behind them. "When I was a child, my tutor used to say that Minas Tirith was built to house twice the population it now does. I suppose such a number has not been accommodated since the pestilence."

"Now that the threat of the Dark Lord is no more, all countries shall flourish again."

"Yes." Idrin looked up, in the direction of the Houses of Healing. "There shall be many children born ere midwinter; and a great number shall never know their sires."

The Rider of Rohan gazed at her, silent, opened his mouth and then merely nodded slowly. "True," he agreed at last. He turned his eyes upward as well and his countenance changed. "Éowyn looks happier than I have seen her in a long while."

The comment made Idrin glance at him. She noted Éothain's softened features and the gleam in his eye. "So does Faramir," she returned, her mouth curving gently. For a while she was quiet, but then she was roused when they passed down into the third level of Minas Tirith. "We are in luck," she said brightly. "Today is market day: there will be much to see."

The marketplace stretched between the gate to the fourth circle and the stone bastion to the east, with stalls lining either side of the main road. Shops stood between the temporary booths, their window-shutters opening upward and downward to display the space within, their hanging signs identifying each one. People went to and fro, and the street hummed with activity and voices. Éothain and Idrin passed a bake-house and a dairy-shop, and they perused the first few booths leisurely, not speaking much, when the Rider turned to the woman beside him. "Will you help me choose a small gift for my mother and sister? I would like to take back something from Gondor."

"What would they like?"

The Rider had halted in front of a stall selling gloves and cloaks and was fingering a pair of riding gloves made from fine cowhide. "They are both of sensible mind and don't care much for baubles." He studied the displayed goods. "Perhaps something of particular connotation to the land." He swept from the booth, Idrin following.

While he pondered scarves and belts, the young woman drifted to a stall a little way off. She was examining the wares on the table when she felt the solid presence behind her. "These are both serviceable and pretty," Éothain commented over her shoulder.

"Mmm," Idrin murmured, her eyes fixed on a hair-comb shaped as a butterfly. She picked it up to inspect the enamelled wings. "Do you think they would like something of the sort?" She twisted her neck to look at up the Rider of Rohan.

Beside them, two women in rich dress retrieved their purchases from the stocky merchant behind the counter, the man seeing them off with a broad smile, his eyes shining. When they were gone, he shifted his attention to Éothain and Idrin. His gaze lingered on the man's plain white tunic and breeches tucked into high boots, and on the woman's olive-coloured dress, simply cut and unadorned save for a tracery of reddish-brown leaves embroidered on bodice, sleeves and hem. His nose twitched, his lips pressing firmly together, and he turned away, busying himself with his finer wares at the back of the counter.

Moving to stand beside Idrin, Éothain took the butterfly-comb from her hands and considered it for a long moment. The young woman touched a silver filigree cloak-fastener resembling the form of sea-shells and set with small white gems, and her lips curved upwards. "There is a portrait in the Steward's House – Aunt Finduilas had a clasp similar to this, given to her by Uncle Denethor," she said.

A sudden clatter caught their attention, and they turned to see the merchant straightening himself behind the display table, red-faced and clutching a hand-mirror. His wide beady eyes flicked quickly from Idrin to Éothain as he polished the metal with swift movements, his gaze straying from the young woman's face to the ornate ivory combs that held her hair in place. He set the mirror down hastily.

"M'lady, can I be of assistance?"

"Thank you," returned Idrin; "but the choice for these does not lie with me."

The merchant glanced at Éothain who had placed the comb he held on the dark drape of the table, watching as the Rider picked up a delicate gilded bronze hairpin, its head fashioned in the likeness of small star-shaped flowers adorned with chips of garnet. He took a step closer to the booth. "A lovely item, sir. Discreet but in style." He scanned the table briefly. "I have its mate here." He presented Éothain with an identical hairpin.

Idrin smiled lightly. "Stonecrops grow in abundance in Gondor, wherever rock is present."

Éothain gave a short, absent nod and regarded the pins thoughtfully, turning them carefully in his hands. "Yes, my sister will like them," he said at last. "The colour will look good on her." He lowered the hairpins onto the table.

"Would your mother wear something like this?" Before the Rider could peruse the wares again, Idrin held up a brooch, wrought in silver-gilt and engraved with yet another star-shaped flower.

Éothain's eyes glinted. "Yes." He claimed the brooch for closer inspection. "It is simple enough for her taste; she will certainly appreciate so useful a thing." He set the clasp beside the hairpins.

The stall-owner looked fleetingly at the items. "Might I interest m'lady in a pair of inlaid combs?" He lifted from his display counter a gold hair-comb studded with little green stones and presented it to Idrin. "If I may be so bold, it shall look lovely in your hair."

The young woman's features softened. "Perhaps some other time," she said.

The merchant bowed and turned to Éothain. "Would that be all, sir?" At the Rider's affirmation, he wrapped the hairpins and brooch in linen and set the small parcel before him.

Éothain's face contracted suddenly. "I have no Gondorian money with me, only the _streón_ and _styccu_ used in the Mark."

The merchant gestured eagerly. "Not to worry," he said promptly; "I have had dealings with the Rohirrim before. It is two _castarin_ and three _tharnin_ … ah —" he went on a brief search behind his table, returning with a little book, which he consulted quickly "— four _streón_ and two _styccu_."²

Éothain searched in the little pouch at his belt and gave the Gondorian the correct sum. Idrin and he left the stall and continued down the market-road, pausing at various booths to glance at the wares on display, walking beyond the stone arch of the great bastion and past the flower-shop and the tavern, towards the gate to the second circle.

"Those combs would have suited you."

The Rider's words made Idrin turn, and a light colour came in her face. "Perhaps," she replied at last; "although I must admit I am not very fond of gold. It's too boisterous for my liking."

Éothain made a wordless exclamation, but his eyes twinkled faintly, his gaze holding hers for a brief instant.

Passing into the City's lower level, they walked in silence for some time, looking around at the shops and houses. "Many of Minas Tirith's cloth-merchants and fabric-workers are in this circle," said Idrin as they went by a draper's shop; "and many of the guildhalls as well."

In the south-east part of the second level, the vast stone structure that was the public bath-house could be seen in the distance, its size setting it apart from the buildings in its vicinity. "There are both heated pools and cold baths in there," Idrin explained. "A covered channel carries water down to them from a lake within the mountain fed by underground springs" – she pointed towards Mindolluin – "and warm air from furnaces beneath the floors heats them."

They had paused at a small greensward surrounding a fountain where a side-street met the main road when something solid bumped into Éothain's leg. A ball rolled away from his foot, and he squatted to pick it up, looking about.

Idrin glanced down the wide lane. "I believe I know where this came from."

The two-storey building across the square was unassuming, boasting many windows and a courtyard with a scattering of green plants, all enclosed by a four-foot wall. A large group of young children, in similar clothes of cream-coloured and brown-hued cloth, looked out as the young woman followed by the Rider of Rohan crossed to them. One boy of about ten years came to the gate and accepted the ball Éothain handed to him with a little smile and a _thank-you_. The others hovered behind him, waiting to resume their game.

"Idrin!" A drawn-out voice beyond the gathered group caught the young woman's attention.

A girl no more than seven years old hurried to the wall, a cloth doll clutched in one hand, dark hair flying behind her. Her broad, flat face was beaming and her slanted eyes were lit.

"Good-day, Lírien," Idrin said, turning her gaze downward. "What happened to your doll?"

The girl's grin faded as she looked at her cloth companion, her eyes lingering on the torn arm. "Snagged on a bush yesterday." Her speech was slow and doleful. "Mistresses Tassweg and Míril had no time to sew her." She lifted her head suddenly and her countenance brightened for a moment. "Could you? You're good with needles."

The young woman hesitated, glanced at Éothain who shrugged, and her mouth curled gently. "Of course," she returned and drew the heavy gate open to join Lírien. The Rider of Rohan followed after her and stood nearby as she sat on a bench, waiting for the girl who had sped inside the large house. Lírien reappeared after a few minutes, a tall, plump woman in her wake. Standing in the doorway, the matron peered at Idrin, inclined her head when the young woman lifted her chin in greeting, and withdrew.

Lírien then hurried to Idrin and presented her with needle and thread. Éothain watched in silence as the young woman bent to her task while the girl followed her movements with bright eyes.

When she had finished, Idrin held up the doll to examine her work, and gave it back to a grinning Lírien.

"Will you stay?" asked the girl.

"I am afraid I cannot today," answered Idrin. "But I will try to come soon."

Éothain shifted, and Lírien looked at him for the first time, studying him for a long moment. She offered a shy smile, and the Rider's lips twitched in reply. Idrin rose to her feet, bidding the girl farewell and watching her running off before following Éothain towards the gate.

"Poor girl."

Idrin stared at the Rider of Rohan. "Her parents died of sickness when she was three years old."

"It might have been kinder had she died with them."

The young woman paused in her tracks and gaped at him. "Kinder?"

"She has the wit of a child of five summers and that will remain so," said Éothain. "Even when she grows older she will not be able to fend for herself. Someone will always have to look after her, care for her, every day."

Idrin's brow creased. "You make it appear as though she is ill." She lowered her voice as a pair of Gondorians passed by them to continue down the main street. "She is not, and she is happy."

"She is a burden to those around her," returned the Rider. "Neither she nor her caretakers can lead normal lives."

The young woman's nostril flared and her jaw set. "And if it was your own child who was so afflicted, what would you have done then?" An instant later Idrin shook her head with a sigh and wrenched her gaze from Éothain's face. As her emotions settled, she noted a boy gazing at them from across the street. He was a tall lad, well-built, with dark hair falling to his shoulders, no more than fifteen years of age. His features seemed vaguely familiar.

The boy averted his eyes hastily when a small frown settled above the bridge of Idrin's nose, but an instant later his gaze turned to them once more, fixing on Éothain. He observed the Rider for a moment longer and then crossed the street in a few long strides.

He stopped near Éothain. "Beg pardon, sir." He waited for the man to acknowledge him and went on: "You know horses, don't you?"

Éothain studied him. "I do."

"It's my master's horse," said the boy. "He fears she's not well; she's been restless all day, he says. He told me to find one of you Rohirrim, you'd know what to do."

Idrin peered at him. "You are Angdan's apprentice, are you not?" she asked at last.

The lad turned to her. "I am, m'lady. Braignor's my name."

The young woman nodded. She had seen him only twice in passing, she recalled, in the blacksmith's forge. Beside her, Éothain caught the apprentice's attention again.

"I shall come with you, once I escort the Lady Idrin to the Citadel." He looked at her. "I suppose this may seem a dull affair to you."

Idrin gave him a cool stare before speaking. "We shall see."

Braignor glanced from one to the other only fleetingly and beckoned. "Come." He set off, leading the way towards the gate set in the second wall of the Guarded City.

* * *

**¹** '[In Aldburg in the Folde] Eorl had his house; it passed after Brego son of Eorl had removed to Edoras into the hands of Eofor, third son of Brego, from whom Éomund, father of Éomer, claimed descent.' ( _Unfinished Tales_ , Part 3, Chapter V, _Appendix (I)_ )  
Given the hereditary nature of rulership and his descent from Eofor, it can be deduced that Éomund – and Éomer after him – was the Lord of Aldburg. Following Éomer's accession to the throne, the rule of Aldburg would pass to his closest male relative on that line, who, in my expansion on familial connections, is Éothain's father.

 **²** Concerning coinage in Middle-earth, we know that 'In Gondor _tharni_ was used for a silver coin, the fourth part of the _castar_ (in Noldorin the _canath_ or fourth part of the _mirian_ ).' ( _The History of Middle-earth: The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , Chapter II, _The Languages at the end of the Third Age: On Translation_ )

Silver pennies were used in Eriador: 'Bilbo gave a few pennies away . . .' ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 1, Chapter I); 'Bill Ferny's price was twelve silver pennies . . .' ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 1, Chapter XI)  
Gold coins were also in usage, although no specific name for them is given: 'I will come back with gold.' ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 1, Chapter IV); '[I]t's worth a gold piece at the least.' ( _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 2, Chapter II)

Assuming that the Rohirrim had their own coins, I have given the Old English name _stycce_ to any silver coin used by them and the name _streón_ to any gold one, and have devised an exchange rate where _1_ _castar = 1_ _ _streón__ _& 3 styccu_ , and _1 streón = 5_ _styccu_.

As the only reference to monetary value in Middle-earth concerns ponies in Bree-land (‘[Barliman Butterbur] offered Merry . . . eighteen pence as some compensation for the lost [five ponies]'; ‘Bill Ferny's price was twelve silver pennies; and that was indeed at least three times [a sickly pony’s] value in those parts’ [ _The_ _Lord_ _of the Ring_ _s_ , Book 1, Chapter XI]), commodity prices are of my invention.


	19. Chapter 18

** Chapter  ** ** 18 **

The south-east part of the first circle of Minas Tirith still bore signs of the damage wrought by the Enemy: fire-blackened buildings dotted the main street, while workers yet toiled at repairs. Angdan's house was close to the south section of the Great Wall, behind his smithy and not far from the armourer's workplace across the street. Braignor entered the yard and led the way towards the back.

They found the blacksmith and his wife at the entrance of a small stable whose wood shone a dark brown and bore no weather-stains. The lines creasing the man's forehead smoothed when he spotted the flaxen-haired Rider of Rohan following his apprentice, and his eyes lit. He fixed his gaze on Éothain.

"Thank you for coming, sir," he said briskly. Drawing breath to continue, he paused when he saw Idrin stepping from behind Éothain to stand beside him. He blinked and closed his mouth again. "Mis—Lady Idrin..." He glanced quickly from the Rider to her.

"Good afternoon, Angdan, Erindis." The young woman greeted him and his wife softly.

Erindis cast a fleeting look at her staring husband and took a hurried step forward. "May I offer refreshment, m'lady?" She turned her gaze to the Rider.

"Just water for me," replied Idrin, but Éothain waved dismissal, shifting his attention to the blacksmith.

"This way." Angdan extended a heavy arm behind him, gesturing and turning to walk inside the stable.

Following in Éothain's wake, Idrin took note of the stiff manner the smith carried himself, but her gaze was soon caught by a chestnut-coated horse lying in the box just within the small stable. The large animal got up as Angdan approached, and a moment later pawed the ground.

The blacksmith sat with a short, loud breath on a wooden barrel across the gate to the box and rubbed at his back. "I got her a couple of weeks ago to help me cart my wares to market," he said. "I can't handle loads or stay on my feet too long ever since the battle during the Siege." He paused and after a moment went on: "The farmer I bought her from told me she's about three years old and has never been sick." Angdan looked at the horse and then focused his attention on Éothain. "She's a beautiful creature, this mare. I haven't much knowledge about horses, but lately her behaviour's begun to change and I can't understand why – she's eating well and doesn't look ill, but she's grown restless. There have been beads like wax on her teats since yesterday, and today she's been shying away, walking around and looking at her flanks. Not long ago she began passing water frequently and even kicked at her belly." The blacksmith continued to gaze at the Rider, waiting.

As Éothain made to enter the mare's box, Erindis walked into the stable, carrying a tray with five cups. Idrin picked up one absent-mindedly and turned to look at the Rider of Rohan.

He held out a hand slowly, and a while later the mare stretched her neck, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed at his palm. The Rider moved closer, whispering quiet words in his own tongue while reaching to stroke her shoulder. He took another step, running his hands gently over the large body, pressing the skin lightly now and then. His features began to soften.

"She is not sick." He turned to look at the small crowd watching him. "She is about to foal. Her size is smaller than commonly observed, but this is probably her first time, and she is a fairly heavy-set animal. It's not very uncommon for such mares to simply look well-fed when they are in foal, especially if they are kept in work."

The blacksmith and his wife stared at him in silence for a long moment. "Foal?" Erindis gazed at the horse. "The farmer said nothing of her being with foal."

In her box, the mare pawed the ground once more.

"He most likely did not realise it," returned Éothain. "Given her size, he probably thought the breeding had failed."

The mare's hoof scraped the earth again, and she lifted her tail.

The Rider of Rohan glanced at her. "She will foal very soon, I daresay." He turned to the blacksmith's wife. "Could you spare a couple of clean towels, mistress? And, perhaps, something to wrap the tail in, and salve?"

Erindis nodded. "I can find towels."

"I have pads of clean cloth, though they may be too small to be of any use," said Idrin, fumbling with the strings of a purse on her belt. "But I do have ointment." She held up the patches of cloth, along with a small jar. "Goldenrod and marigold."

"They will do," said Éothain, and the blacksmith's wife made for the house. The Rider took the squares of light fabric and approached the mare, whispering softly as he unfolded them and bound her tail as best he could. When he stepped away, the animal snorted and lay down.

Still sitting on the barrel, Angdan glanced about and noticed his young apprentice standing unobtrusively by the stable door, watching. "You are free to go home, Braignor," he addressed the boy. "I have kept you here long enough. Thank you for your help."

The lad offered a farewell and, with a last look at the mare, strode away.

The blacksmith turned back to Éothain, his brow wrinkling. "How am I to care for a newborn foal? I wouldn't know what to do."

"You need not do much," replied the Rider. "Simply keep the stable dry and clean, protected from harsh weather and loud noises; give the mare good feed; make sure the bedding's soft. The dam will do the rest." He paused. "I can visit every day and help."

Angdan's face relaxed at the words, and he let out a breath. "That would put my mind at ease, indeed."

The sound of rushing water punctured the following silence just as Erindis returned to the stable, towels clutched in her hands. The woman started and her grip on her load tightened before she turned towards the horse's box.

The mare was on her side, her legs extended as a dark shape enclosed in an almost transparent sac protruded beneath her tail. Two legs were slowly pushed out into the world, and the dam raised her body slightly off the ground before easing herself down onto the straw again. She grunted as her belly grew taut and relaxed, and soon the contractions were followed by the appearance of a dark muzzle.

Having stood as far away from the mare as the space would allow, Éothain now backed out of the horse's box to settle near Angdan, picking up a cup from the tray Erindis had placed on a wooden crate. The blacksmith and his wife were gazing wide-eyed at the unfolding sight before them, and beside Erindis, Idrin stood transfixed, the cup forgotten in her hand. The Rider's lip curled and he looked back at the dam, saw that one of the foal's shoulders had been pushed out, and turned to Angdan.

"We will need clean water and soap."

Pulled out of his reverie-like state, the blacksmith nodded and stood, heading towards the back of the stable. He returned promptly carrying a bucket, set it down and watched as the foal flopped to the ground, lifted its neck and tried to roll onto his breastbone.

Its head freed from the membrane that had covered it, the newborn attempted to pull itself upright now and again, wobbling and flailing before the dam, having shifted to a sitting position, rose at last, pulling the foal to its feet and breaking the connecting cord.

At her husband's side, Erindis watched the animal stagger and crumple to the straw. "What are we to do with a second horse?"

Angdan didn't turn at the sound of her quiet voice, his attention fixed on the mare who was tending to her wet offspring, but he sighed and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "We shall have to wait and see."

Éothain was the first to take a step forward when, after a long while, the foal was standing on shaky legs. He entered the box slowly, his eyes on the dam before he bent over the delivered membranes and afterbirth. Inspecting the intact pink and white mass, he once more looked over at the mare standing calmly beside her newborn. "We need to wash her before the foal suckles and put salve on the newborn's stump to ward off infection."

At the Rider's words, Erindis gave a towel to her husband. He crossed into the box, with Idrin several paces behind him, holding the hem of her dress above the straw. They halted their approach when the dam turned to stare at them, just as Éothain cautioned them to walk carefully. After a long moment, the mare shifted her attention back to her offspring.

"Do not to place yourselves between the foal and the dam," the Rider warned. "Draught horses are placid animals, and this one is indeed friendly, but mares can be fiercely protective of their newborns. Many will charge and even bite when they feel a person poses a threat to their foals, be they strangers or not."

Angdan and Idrin nodded. When the blacksmith stroked the mare and crouched to clean her with soap and lukewarm water, the young woman took a few halting steps nearer, aware of the loud sound of her own breathing in her ears as she reached tentatively towards the dam. The horse sniffed at her and Idrin exhaled, feeling a small weight lifting from her chest. She took another step and ran a gentle hand over the mare's body, finally moving to put the foal between them. After a long look at the ground, she gathered her skirts close to her and lowered herself to sit carefully on her heels beside the newborn. The animal started at the proximity but soon turned its attention to its mother as Idrin pulled the small jar of salve from her purse.

Nearby, Éothain surveyed the space and stable beyond it, noting the lack of other boxes, huffed and took to clearing away the wet straw where the mare had foaled, replacing it with new and checking the manger and water trough. Glancing at the blacksmith and Idrin every now and then, he straightened as they rose and stepped away from the horses. "We should give them some peace." He motioned towards the mare and foal as the newborn began to suckle.

Angdan led the way outside, and they saw that the westering sun had began to tint the sky with shades of pink and orange.

"Your dress is soiled, m'lady."

Idrin turned at the sound of Erindis's voice and then looked down. The sleeves and hem of her dress were wet indeed, the glossy stains nearly seeming to match the dark-coloured embroidery in hue.

"You can't go home like this," the blacksmith's wife went on. "I shall find you something clean to wear, and once I have washed your dress, I will send it up to the Citadel."

The young woman didn't reply at once, studying the shorter, broader blacksmith's wife, her nose twitching.

"It may not be the best fit, but it shall serve its purpose well," Erindis hurried to speak again.

Idrin held her gaze for an instant. She should not scorn an offer meant so kindly, she knew, even if wearing another's clothes would make her feel uncomfortable. "Thank you," she said at last, following the blacksmith's wife towards the house.

The older woman led her to a bedchamber and opened a tall wardrobe, searching through it for several moments before choosing two dresses of undyed wool and shaking them out. "Try these on, m'lady," she said. "I daresay they won't be too broad in the shoulder." She laid them on the large bed and left the room.

The second dress fit better, being less loose on her figure albeit still a little short in the sleeves and hem. Looking down at her feet, Idrin observed that her shoes bore wet stains she had failed to see before.

Erindis took note of that as well when she came back a short while later and bustled off, returning with a pair of shoes. "They may be a bit small, but at least they are dry," she said as she offered them to Idrin. "I shall clean your own and return them with your dress."

The young woman gave the rough calfskin a lingering look. When she wore them, the shoes pinched her toes every now and then while she walked, but a glance at her wet ones set her resolve. She followed Erindis outside where Angdan and Éothain waited, plucking at the sleeves of the borrowed dress before finally pushing them up her forearms, and taking small steps to keep the short hem from brushing against her ankles.

The Rider of Rohan turned to the blacksmith. "I will come tomorrow, before the third hour after dawn."

Angdan's eyes brightened, and he placed a hand on his breast. "My thanks."

Shifting to look at Erindis, Idrin tugged at the dress she wore to better cover her legs. "I shall have this laundered and returned with your shoes by afternoon," she said.

The blacksmith and his wife walked with Éothain and Idrin to the main road, bade them farewell and made for their house.

Ascending to the second circle of the City and drawing near the street that led to the orphan-house, the young woman caught herself glancing at the man beside her. She blew out a short breath, a small frown beginning to settle above the bridge of her nose.

"You asked what I would do if my own child was afflicted."

Éothain's quiet voice startled her, and she was surprised to note he seemed troubled. Deep furrows creased his brow and his eyes were dark, his gaze keen.

"The truth is I do not know," he went on. "I still maintain that such people are more burden than anything else, when they cannot fend for themselves and always have to depend on others..." His words trailed off. Behind them, the marketplace of Minas Tirith was emptying, merchants and stall-owners gathering their wares and moving their booths from the street.

Idrin regarded the Rider of Rohan for a while, thinking. "Even so, has anyone the right to decide another's fate for them when they do no harm? This is no battlefield where one has no choice."

Éothain gave a mirthless snort. "Aye, battle is simpler in that respect." His face darkened and grew pensive once more. "It is a complicated matter, indeed, and one cannot know with certainty how he would act unless he truly comes to face such circumstances." He fell quiet.

Idrin glanced at him when several moments went by, but he did not speak again. She turned away, and they continued their ascent to the upper circles in silence.

Twilight was deepening when they reached the townhouse on the fifth level. There was light within and the front garden was empty, but as they approached, Idrin's tabby cat leapt lightly onto the low wall by the entryway.

The corners of the young woman's mouth curved upwards. "Hello, Espig." The animal leant against her, purring loudly and arching his back as she stroked his fur. Idrin looked up at Éothain. "You will stay for supper?"

Her bright eyes turned to him, the Rider of Rohan blinked quickly. "I would not wish to intrude," he replied.

"You will not." Idrin shifted her attention to the cat, picked him up gently and entered the garden. Éothain followed, his gaze on her softened features once more.

A quiet sound and a clattering noise made them pause inside the threshold. The young woman stood for a moment and then made for the back of the house. A courtyard of stone was between the flowerbeds there, and in the fading light Idrin saw her eldest brother's daughter at one end, facing a sturdy frame on which was mounted a round board, draped with white cloth painted black in its centre. The girl was stooping over something on the ground, her back to them.

"I see you have been given your uncle's bow," said Idrin, bending her knees to let the cat down.

Orien straightened quickly, an arrow in her hand, and relaxed when she recognised the young woman. "Father has begun teaching me," she returned and looked down at the bow she held. "Uncle said this was yours."

"It was gifted to him," replied Idrin; "I only had it for some time as a child."

As she walked closer, Orien eyed her clothes. "What happened to your dress?"

Idrin's lip twisted momentarily. "It was stained, so I had to borrow another."

The girl gave a nod and then noticed the man in the shadows behind her aunt. She cocked her head to one side.

Idrin looked back at the Rider of Rohan. "This is Éothain," she began but Orien's countenance brightened.

"Father spoke of you." Her eyes glinted with recognition. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." She paused. "Will you be joining us for supper?"

Éothain inclined his head. "I will."

A few paces in front of him, Idrin glanced at the wooden target in the distance and turned to her niece. "Do not let us keep you from your practice," she said. "Although the light is not perfect."

Orien stood tall. "There is still enough for a few more moments of training." She shifted to face the wooden board.

Silent, Idrin studied her movements as she nocked the arrow and pulled back the bowstring, and near her, the Rider of Rohan watched the girl also. "Point the elbow of your bow arm sideways," said the young woman, "or else it will be into the path of the string and you will have a bruise afterwards."

The girl twitched her forearm and loosed the arrow. It almost brushed the right side of the target and landed behind it.

Idrin opened her mouth just as Éothain spoke: "You were taught archery, lady?"

The young woman turned to him instead. "I was," she answered. Beside her, Orien took another arrow from the quiver at her feet. "Women in Gondor do not handle large weapons, but it is not uncommon for those born to nobility especially to have knowledge of archery," Idrin went on. "Although dancing and embroidery are considered appropriate pastimes to a lady of the household, there are some who are also accomplished in hunting and falconry."

Éothain regarded her with a twinkle in his eye, but Idrin had shifted her attention to her niece once more to see her arrow take flight. "Do not drop your arm immediately after you loose. Keep it up and you will not hit low, even if you can't see it yet."

Orien took a deep breath and tried again, and her next arrow pinned the white cloth to the board behind it.

As the girl smiled, squinting in the half-light, Idrin took in the sky and abruptly remembered her intention to make a circuit of the Citadel's library.  She exhaled, shaking her head at the advanced hour and shifted forward. "Come; now it is late indeed; it will be pitch dark in a while." She went to the wooden target and wrenched out the couple of arrows that had found their mark, picking up the others that lay scattered on the stones around it. By the time she straightened, Orien had gathered the bow and quiver, and soon a door to their left opened to reveal the housekeeper.

The girl trudged towards the house, Idrin and Éothain following close behind. Once inside, Orien made for the upper floor, passing Nathes in the corridor to the kitchen, and Idrin led the way to the drawing room. Arvinion got to his feet when she and the Rider of Rohan entered, Damhir rising an instant later. Beside them, Faervel and Gladhwen glanced up, their eyes flickering from their sister-by-marriage to her companion.

"Éothain." Fondly, Damhir gestured him forward. "Come, meet the rest of our family." He motioned to each of the women in turn: "This is my wife, Gladhwen; and Arvinion's own, Faervel."

The man met their gaze fleetingly and inclined his head. "'Tis a pleasure."


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter** **19**

Soon after breaking her fast the following morning, Idrin saw a man approaching her. She did not know him but recognised the livery worn by those serving in the King's House.

The man acknowledged her with a small bow of the head. "Lady, the King Elessar wishes to speak with you."

Surprised by the hour, the young woman made no immediate reply. Then, curious as to what the new ruler of Gondor had to say, after their meeting but briefly before, she gave the messenger a cursory nod. She smoothed her hands over her healer's garb, and allowed herself to be led from the Steward's House.

They found the King in his study, a room furnished with comfortable chairs and a round table, with rugs upon the floor, a grand bookcase standing against one wall and a fireplace built into another. Elessar was seated behind the large desk strewn with papers and letters and rolls of parchment. When the man-servant announced Idrin's presence and took his leave, the King greeted her and bade her sit.

"Forgive me for keeping you from your work, lady," he said; "I sought you yesterday and did not find you. Faramir told me that the affairs in the Citadel have been your charge, and I am now in need of your aid." He paused for breath and went on: "In two or three days embassies will come from the North and the South, the West and the East. Mistress Raenith has begun the preparations for their reception and the small feast of welcome to be held when all have arrived, but meetings and petitions leave both me and Faramir with little time to attend her reports. It will be a great help indeed if you would see to those."

A spark glimmered in Idrin's eyes as she spoke: "I shall, lord."

Elessar nodded to himself and regarded the young woman before him for an instant. "There is another matter I would discuss with you, concerning the housing of the Ringbearers and their companions," he said. "After their toils, Frodo and Sam should spend their days here in peace, away from the bustle of the Citadel and among friends, and they are not averse to the idea. For that reason I am of a mind to find a house for them in the lower levels of the City. Faramir has suggested one in the sixth circle, but I understand the townhouse in question belonged to your aunt, Ivreth, who was your foster-mother." He looked at Idrin, waiting.

The young woman took a moment before replying. "Yes, the house did belong to my aunt, and as she had no living children, the claim goes to her closest relatives, though no decision has yet been made," she said. "It has not been lived in for many years." Again, there was a small silence and then Idrin's lips pressed together briefly. "It should be put to the use it was meant for, even if it is for a little while. I will tell Laidhril to find domestics to air and clean it."

"I shall leave that to you, then." The King rose. "Thank you, lady."

Idrin did him a courtesy andwent from the room, walking outside into the courtyard facing the Tower of Ecthelion to see the grey dawn had given way to pale light, and the sun had risen above the skyline. She cast a lingering look towards the gate leading down to the sixth level, the corner of her mouth twisting stiffly: she was late already, but if things were to be done in their proper time, she had to find Laidhril now. Letting out a short breath, the young woman turned her footsteps in the direction of the Steward's House.

By the time she finally made her way towards the Houses of Healing, the sky had become a bright blue. Hurrying to the ward where she had been assigned, she glimpsed the Chief Healer from afar, just as the man himself caught sight of her. He said nothing, and Idrin continued on.

* * *

The sunlight slanting into the room through the open window gave a golden tinge to the greyish scales on the woman's face. Idrin considered the stiff patches of skin that covered one cheek and part of the throat and then took a step backwards.

"There is no change. That is a good sign – the progress of the disease has halted."

The woman's eyes lit and the healer mirrored her expression before moving to the washbasin that stood near one wall. An orderly came in to pick up a tray from the bedside table, balancing it carefully well above her round belly and carrying it away, and Idrin turned to her patient.

"I shall see you tomorrow."

Stepping out of the room, she found the orderly waiting in the hallway.

"Mistress, Master Neston wishes to see you in his study."

The healer's curiosity faded as the younger woman spoke, and a momentary coolness flickered in her stomach. "Thank you," she said finally. Idrin stayed where she stood for a spell, watching the orderly disappearing into a store-room, and then turned on her heel, setting off towards the Chief Healer's study.

She was admitted upon knocking, and Master Neston motioned to a chair before his desk. "You were late on the morrow." He spoke without preamble when the young woman settled.

Idrin took a breath, deciding there was no need for excess details. "I was detained by pressing matters in the Citadel."

The Chief Healer gave her a lingering look. "Mistress Berenil saw to some of those in your care, as the orderly who works with you took the time to acquaint her with their situation so that there would be no delay in their daily treatment," he said. "The girl has not attended to her other duties in the store-rooms to do so and in her condition she should not overexert herself; thus, those tasks she could not complete today, you shall undertake."

Idrin looked at the Chief Healer, silent. The orderly had told her of Berenil's attending to three of her charges, but she had not realised her being late had had further consequences. She dropped her gaze for an instant. "Of course."

And so it was that after two hours the young woman was still in the Houses of Healing, choosing leaf-bearing plant-stems, tying them together with string and hanging them from hooks in the wall to dry. When the last sprig was hung and the empty tray lying on the cabinet-top beside her was cleaned, she looked out the window to see the westering sun beginning to bathe the garden in flame-coloured light. Ensuring that all was in order, she quitted the room and made her way to the Steward's lodgings to wash and change her clothes.

Afterwards, as the late afternoon was still warm, Idrin left her chamber and went outside, to the back of the house where a low hedge of meadowsweet surrounded a small garden of irises and peonies. The lanterns hanging from tall posts near the two wood-and-iron benches were still unlit, yet one of the seats was occupied, Lothíriel and Éowyn contemplating a thick square board between them. Moving an ebon-hued rounded piece along one of the carved paths that criss-crossed the wooden surface, Éowyn let her hand hover over the row of three dark pawns, and then she chose a light-wood piece, plucking it out of its small groove slowly.

Approaching them, Idrin noted there was a number of discarded pawns in the hollow lid hinged to the board, nearly as many light ones as there were dark. "How long have you been playing?"

"This is our third game." Lothíriel answered without looking up. "Éowyn learns fast."

The flaxen-haired woman watched the Prince Imrahil's daughter move a light-wood piece. "I was raised among Marshals and Captains of war: strategy is not foreign to me." Then, as Idrin sat on the second bench near them, her eyes on the board, she turned to her. "Do you play _taldí_?"¹

"I do," replied Idrin, but her attention was caught by a flash in the folds of Éowyn's cloak that lay beside her. The bird-shaped brooch glinted faintly in the late afternoon sun, the little gem set in the silver dove's eye catching the soft light. "That is a beautiful clasp," she said, a smile on her lips.

Éowyn's eyes sparkled. "Faramir said it belonged to his mother, her own betrothal gift from his father."² She paused to take her turn at the game and went on: "There is a portrait of them in the Steward's House – they look quite happy together."

"Theirs was an arranged marriage," said Lothíriel, studying Éowyn's faint frown and the tilt of her head, "but those who knew them say it was not loveless."

Idrin then spoke as Imrahil's daughter shifted her gaze to the board: "The Lord Denethor was a man of great knowledge and refined manners, and the Lady Finduilas was charmed by that. They shared a love for books, and although Uncle was not one to display his feelings openly, he did cherish her. Not all political matches are without affection. Mine was not."

Éowyn looked up, her eyes flicking to the other woman's hand. "You were wedded?"

"I was to be," returned Idrin. "Thaldor was slain in battle." When her companions looked at her still, she spoke again: "His father was brother to Forlong of Lossarnach, and we knew one another since childhood. We had an easy friendship, so when our parents proposed the match, I believed I could love him. I enjoyed our spending time together and speaking with him, and no-one had captured my interest as he had. There would have been contentment and comfort in our life."

Quiet fell as a man-servant came and lit the lanterns. Watching him at his work, Idrin looked at the game-board when he left. "There will be little light in a while."

Éowyn turned her gaze to the wooden pieces at long last and slowly reached for a dark-wood pawn.

* * *

In the mid-afternoon two days later, Idrin found herself making her way to the sixth circle of the City. Lothíriel and Éowyn had opted to work in the little garden the Lady Rillien kept in their townhouse, and thus the young woman walked through the gate to the stables alone.

The tan-coloured gelding she had ridden to Cormallen was housed not far from the entrance to the building, surrounded by grey battle-steeds, and turned to look at her when she opened the door to his box. He lowered his head as she patted his flank, blowing into her plaited hair.

"Shall I fetch your saddle, lady?"

Idrin shifted her attention to the stablehand now waiting behind her. "Please do."

After the man readied the gelding, the young woman dismissed his offer to lead the horse outside and took the reins.

"You go riding?"

She turned to catch sight of Éothain walking towards her and smiled. "I do. The city can become rather loud sometimes."

The Rider of Rohan glanced about quickly. "Do you have no escort?"

Perceiving the small crease above the bridge of his nose, Idrin gave her head a little shake. "I shan't go far, and the Pelennor is nearly teeming with people these days, with the repairs and rebuilding."

"May I join you? I must find my men, so I am bound for the horse-paddocks outside, but I should like the opportunity to exercise my stallion."

Idrin noted the glint in his eye. "Of course," she said. "Lothíriel and the Lady Éowyn took to gardening today, so I shall be glad of the company."

The gelding stamped a foot, and Éothain turned at the sound.

"He is a handsome animal," he said, looking at the horse closely before beginning to walk towards the stable-door.

"Indeed, he is," Idrin agreed. "I rode him to Cormallen; the stable-master, Mablung, found him for me."

"He is not yours, then?"

"Oh, no," replied the young woman. "I do not go riding so often as to have need of a horse of my own." She came to a stop beside Éothain as he halted at a box housing a big dapple-grey stallion. "The only one I ever owned was a pony, gifted to me by my father on my seventh birthday. Now he is growing old in Forvarad, with Orien doting on him." Idrin watched as the Rider of Rohan entered the horsebox, murmuring in a low voice to the destrier, and patted his neck and shoulder. "She likes to care for him herself, even brushing him," the young woman continued.

His hands moving swiftly as he saddled the stallion, Éothain paused and regarded her for an instant. "He is hers now, after all," he said slowly, turning to his mount again and fitting the bridle.

They led their horses to the first circle of Minas Tirith at a walk, and when they had passed through the gates, Éothain cast a glance back at the men standing guard at the entrance to the City. "I was told that, before the battle, there was a password for every gate."

"That is true," replied Idrin. "The Lord Denethor had thought it a prudent act, to increase the safety within the city."³

Éothain had turned north, towards the tents that dotted the plain nearby. Beyond them, large paddocks had been built, housing grey war-horses of the Rohirrim. The ringing of steel reached them as they approached, and they saw that a crowd of men were pressed against the fence of one of the wooden enclosures, watching and talking as two riders within sparred. The few soldiers who had remained at the tents noted the presence of the two companions with momentary interest, resuming their occupation when they had passed.

Drawing closer to the paddocks, Éothain's stallion tossed his head and snorted, and a couple of men turned towards them.

 _"_ _Beothu forwost hál!"_ cried the youngest, scarcely older than a boy, when his eyes found his captain. Those near him shifted their attention from the sparring, and like ripples on a calm lake, silence spread to all quickly. The Riders in the paddock reined their horses, sheathed their swords and dismounted, walking to the fence.

Éothain returned the lad's greeting with a nod, and, amid curious glances, more acknowledgements followed as he and Idrin approached, those who did not speak the Common Tongue inclining their heads to the young woman. When every gaze finally settled on him, Éothain spoke: _"Wé farath on thrim dagum."_

The men remained quiet after that announcement, and Idrin watched her companion walking closer to his comrades, beginning to speak once more and then conversing with them. At length the rich sound waned and Éothain made his way back towards her.

"We depart for the Mark in three days," he said as they left the assembly of Riders behind. "There is much to be done ere Théoden King is laid to rest."

Idrin looked at him. "When will you return?"

"I do not know," he replied, changing his grip on the stallion's reins and mounting. Hearing the sounds of mock battle in the near distance as the men in the paddock resumed their sparring, the horse swivelled one ear, lifting a dark foreleg to scrape the earth beneath him, and pranced where he stood. Éothain checked him with a deft hand. _"_ _Wes stille, Dyrstig,"_ he spoke soft words to the stallion, calming him.

Idrin suppressed a chuckle as she mounted her gelding. "How old is he, behaving as frisky as a colt?"

"He is not yet six years of age," returned the Rider, setting his mount into motion; "but he is not accustomed to being so confined as he has been these past few days, and because of that he has grown restless." He patted the stallion's neck.

"Shall we let them run, then?"

Éothain had turned towards her. "Yes, let's." He pressed his heels against the warhorse's flanks and Idrin spurred her gelding on. They rode south before travelling in a great arc back towards the city, and after almost an hour, they reined their mounts to a stop near the root of Mindolluin, not far from the Hill of Guard. Dismounting, they let their horses cool and find what grazing they could and looked about.

Éothain tugged at the neck of his tunic. "Is it always so hot this time of year? In the Riddermark there is rarely such heat even in high summer."

"I envy your high summer, then," said Idrin, "but this is indeed hotter than usual for the season. There is a pleasant breeze in the evenings at the least." She began walking towards the mountain, where a small stream trickled down from the climbing slopes. Drawing up the sleeves of her dress, she crouched beside it and let her fingers trail in the cool water.

"In the Mark the rainfall often continues until late summer and those storms can be fierce."⁴

A dripping sound followed Éothain's words, and the young woman turned to see him sitting on his heels some distance from her, his face glistening with droplets of water, a wet hand resting on the back of his neck.

His stallion approached him then and lowered his head, his nostrils flaring against the Rider's clothes, but Éothain stood, spreading his arms to show he carried nothing of interest. After a few moments, the horse shifted his attention, and Idrin looked up as Dyrstig loomed closer. He sniffed at her but soon moved away, and the young woman got to her feet.

"Shall we go back?"

At the enquiry Éothain grasped the stallion's reins, and before long they were mounted once more. They rode slowly, pausing for a while in silence at the mounds raised above the fallen defenders of Minas Tirith, and continued on eastward.

Entering the city and nearing the crossing where the way from the Great Gate met the main road, Idrin looked to her left. "What of Angdan's mare and her foal?"

"Both are well," replied Éothain. "Angdan may make a good horse-tender yet."

A blur of movement caught his eye, he turned from Idrin to see a boy hurtling across their path, and pulled sharply on Dyrstig's reins. The stallion came to an immediate halt but the boy was on his backside, fallen where the forward motion of the horse's leg had caught him.

Éothain leapt from the saddle. "Are you alright, lad?" He crouched down, a crease appearing above the bridge of his nose when the boy didn't speak, and reached towards him.

Looking up at the stallion looming above him, his eyes shining and mouth open, the lad got to his feet and put out a hand towards Dyrstig. The warhorse gazed at him with big dark eyes, and the boy cast a grinning glance at Éothain before rushing off.

The Rider dropped his arm and stared after him, shaking his head, his mouth curling as he mounted again. Beside him Idrin gave a short chuckle and nudged her gelding onward.

They rode in silence for a while, and passing from the fifth level of the city, the young woman turned to Éothain. "I must see to my aunt's old townhouse ere nightfall – the Halflings and their companions are to dwell there for a time, and I have yet to attend to the preparations."

"I will come with you," returned the Rider; "despite our walk two days past, I have not seen much of the high circles of the city."

So they rode beyond the Houses of Healing, and Idrin came to a halt before a fair house of white stone fronting the main street in the south part of the sixth level. The shutters of its wide windows were thrown open, and the ornate iron gate that led to the garden was unlatched.

Bustling among the flower-bushes, a man looked up at the sound of the gate closing and blinked at Idrin as she paused on the path to the front porch.

When a spell of silence had passed, the young woman spoke: "I am Idrin –"

The man's eyes grew round then. "Lady, we were not expecting you. Let me call the one in charge," he said quickly, promptly discarding the trowel he held in one gloved hand and hurrying towards the house.

By the time Idrin reached the steps to the porch, the front door had been opened and a plump woman stood before her. "M'lady, we've just finished cleaning the bedrooms and shall have the house ready by evening tomorrow." She moved to the side to let Idrin precede her, casting a fleeting look at Éothain and the horses by the gate, and followed the young woman within.

Looking around her, Idrin walked through the hall, going from room to room swiftly. When she reached the front door once more after some time, she turned to the house-servant overseeing the preparations. "All is in good order. Send word when your work is done."

She made to leave but a crashing noise suddenly drew her attention. An orderly stood over shards of pottery, rigid as stone, her face horror-stricken. Crossing the entrance hall, two domestics slowed their footsteps for a moment and then hurried on.

Idrin glanced at the broken blue-and-grey pieces and drew a sharp breath.

The orderly opened her mouth but no words came. "Forgive me, m'lady," she said at last. She made to bent down but straightened again, her hands twitching.

Idrin fixed her with a piercing gaze. "Take more care with the things you carry. This was dear to my aunt."

The girl's lip trembled at the crisp tone, and she fled from the hall.

An instant of quiet followed, and then the plump overseer spoke: "We'll send word to Mistress Laidhril once we finish, m'lady."

The young woman looked at her. "Very well." She went from the house, closing the garden-gate behind her.

After he had given her the gelding's reins, Éothain gazed at her for a long moment. "You were rather harsh with the girl."

"That vase was no trinket," said Idrin, her voice clipped, but as they walked on in silence, her brow furrowed.

When they entered the stables, a lad came to take her horse, and she followed him for a short distance, watching him lead the gelding farther in. Reaching a wide space near the back of the building where equipment was held, the stablehand secured the gelding loosely to a post and began to unsaddle him.

Idrin turned to go but paused near the entrance to the stables, where a large and rather empty area stood to one side of the doors. Éothain was crouching beside his warhorse there, regarding a front hoof closely, the stallion's saddle and a wooden bucket filled with an assortment of brushes by him.

"Did something happen to his leg?"

The Rider looked up at her, his lip twitching momentarily. "No, but after a ride one must see to his horse's hooves to make certain there is nothing lodged in them that might lead to lameness."

Idrin watched as Éothain withdrew his hand and Dyrstig picked up his hind foot at a touch from his master. "It seems there is much I do not know about horses," she mused, approaching the pair.

* * *

¹ _Taldí_ , meaning _pawn-row_ , is the Sindarin name of my reconstruction for the board game Nine-Men's Morris, a game which dates to the third millennium BC (Damian Gareth Walker, _A Book of Historic Board Games_ ).

² While Professor Tolkien created customs for the Elves (found in _Morgoth's Ring_ of _The History of Middle-earth_ ), he didn't do the same for Men. This Gondorian betrothal custom is of my invention.

³ While during the War of the Ring passwords were needed in order to move from one circle of Minas Tirith to another ('. . . and you [i.e., Gandalf] know the pass-words of the Seven Gates and are free to go forward'; '[P]eregrin son of Paladin [shall be] taught the lesser pass-words.' [ _The Lord of the Rings_ , Book 5, Chapter I]), it is unlikely that such passwords would be in daily use during times of peace, as it would be a highly impractical feature in a city inhabited by thousands of people.

⁴ Since Rohan is a country of temperate grasslands, it would experience 'a dry season that begins in the late summer, fall, or winter and continues until spring' with rainfall being often heavy (Michael Allaby, _Grasslands_ ).

—

* A Note on Languages: I have opted to modernise the spelling of the Old English used here to make it readable to those not familiar with the language's alphabet. Thus, just as _Sceadufæx_ becomes _Shadowfax_ , or _Wes ðú Þéoden hál_ is modernised to _Westu Théoden hál_ in _The Lord of the Rings_ , so do _Béo ðú forwost hál_ and _Wé faraþ on þrím dagum_ become _Beothu forwost hál_ and _Wé farath on thrim dagum_ respectively.


End file.
